


A Far Flung Corner of the Empire

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Greg Lestrade, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Greg, Protective Mycroft, Roman Britain, Roman Empire AU, Roman!Lock, johnlock if you squint, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: In a way, this crosses over with the name of the exhibition in the Sherrinford Museum that Mycroft is Director of in "Knight at the Museum", my Sherlock/Museum AU. Having just seen Rupert in a clip from Rotten Romans, I realised this fits in with my own fanfic… So this might be classed as an AU of an AU... argh!There will be relationship stuff, smut and such later, but I hope there is a plot in there as well...





	1. Exitus Acta Probat

General Gregorious Octavian Silvanus was nearing the end of his tether, not to mention his tenure as General of Legio VI Victrix. He was wet, cold, and not sure if he wasn’t catching a fever. He had been on the road for days, marching north from Londinium, heading for Eboracum. The breastplate of his lorica had developed something sharp that was digging into his ribs, the damp and the cold were conspiring to make his old bones ache and to cap it all, his horse was acting skittish and threatening to unseat him at the earliest opportunity. It had been provided for him in Londinium, and he was not pleased with their choice. The bugger had tried to bite him more than once. He was about to speak to one of his tribunes when it snorted and kicked out. He smacked it angrily and tugged on the reins, attempting to bring it under control. “Fuck you, you moronic ass, I’ll have them make you into dogmeat!” he swore at it. The horse flattened his ears and snorted right back. “I am selling you when I get to Eboracum, you demon. Better yet, I’ll sacrifice you to Mithras.…” 

The Cornum blew behind him along the long column of men that trailed behind him, marching with full packs, shields and weapons. Sandals stuffed with sheepskin against the cold, cloaks lined with scraps of fur, they marched stoically toward their goal. They all knew better than to complain, but to a man they hated Alba. 

“This place will suck a man’s soul right out of his body!” Gregorious swore. “Andus!” A lean man came running, dressed in the garb of a Gaul.

“General?”

“What in the name of sanity is that horn call for?” Gregorius turned to his tribunes. “Has nobody trained the player in the signals? It sounds like a strangled cat.”

“It’s the damp, sir,” one of the Tribunes, Caius, replied.

“Everything’s fucking damp, Caius,” Gregorius snapped. “This bloody country is always damp. Nothing works, everything rots and we’re all freezing our pricks off. So what’s with the disruption now?”

“A messenger, I think, my Lord,” Andus offered, peering down the lines. It was hard to see in the misty drizzle that cloaked the legion’s cohorts. The line of soldiers was a long one. Four thousand eight hundred men marched or rode behind them, arranged in cohorts. The final cohort was a few hours behind them. Each one had a Cornicen to sound his horn to convey orders or alarm or send messages. The horn call had obviously come up the lines ahead of the messenger.

“I’ve told you before, I am not your lord,” Gregorius muttered, attempting to rein in his mount, cursing it when it did not come to a neat stop but danced about on the spot. He looked at one of the other tribunes who were flanking him, all of them mounted on horses that all seemed to be better behaved than his. “You, Marcus, call a halt.”

The man nodded and wheeled his horse around. “Victrix!” he bellowed. “Consiste!” _Halt._ Behind them, the men of the first cohort came to a practiced stop, _unlike this thrice-damned horse_ , Gregorius thought sourly. “Laxate!” Marcus called out. _Parade rest_. 

Gregorius nodded. Might as well let them rest while the messenger caught up. 

The messenger, his small horse foam-flecked, breathing hard, and steaming in the cold, leapt to the ground before the animal had come to a halt, slapping his fist to his chest in salute as he handed over a scroll case. He bowed deeply from the waist. Gregorius took the thing and inclined his head in formal thanks. “Find this man a drink,” he ordered nobody in particular as he broke the seal and read the contents. He knew Andus would do the job. His slave was conscientious in everything he did. Cracking the seal on the case, Gregorius slid the contents out, scanning the words carefully.

 _Wonderful,_ he thought, unimpressed with what he was reading. Emperor Moriarty was apparently well on his way to sealing the fate of Rome, it seemed. The message was from his superior, General Flavius, back in Londinium. 

The Empire was in tatters, held together by the vigilance of the select few senators who could keep the madman from his worst excesses. Now, it seemed, orders had come to pull back, to return to Rome, to back the senate in their forcible removal of Moriarty and reclaiming of the Republic. They would have to stand against The Tiger of Rome, General Sebastianus. The man commanded Rome’s armies, and he would never be an easy man to beat. Rumour had it he was also Moriarty’s lover, but that had not been proven. Flavius ordered Gregorius to continue with his mission, then make plans to bring the Legio VI and IX back with him, leaving a nominal force to protect the city until all this had blown over. Blown over? _Bloody Flavius,_ he thought, morose again. _Blown over?_ None of this would simply _blow over._

Rome’s power was on the decline, and the Proconsuls scattered across the furthest frontiers with their private armies were taking power away from her. Gregorious’ mission was simple. The Proconsul of Eboracum had set himself up with his own private army, funded from his own coffers. Gregorius was to go to Eboracum, find the man, and kill him if he proved to be bothersome. He was to assume control and bring the city under Empire rule once more. It was an important strategic powerbase, with city status, situated as it was at the point of two river crossings, one of which went straight to the north sea and to the trade routes that were vital to the Empire. It was Fortress, Colonia and Canabae, an industrial base and trading port right at the heart of the country. To lose control of it was unthinkable.

The column of men waited patiently, eyes everywhere as they stood at rest. Most were seasoned soldiers and knew to be vigilant, even when taking their ease. The seasoned ones kept the rookies steady, and taught them the tricks to staying alive long enough to enjoy their pay. Attacks were rarer these days but were still known to happen, even though there was a tacit peace between the tribes and their foreign governors. Of late, tribes from across the water had been getting bolder, making incursions across the north sea. Hastily built forts had sprung up all along the east coast, almost one on every promontory in order to guard and warn of an invasion. Gregorius sighed, wondering how long it would take before they lost Alba completely. How long before their manpower was spread too thin to maintain their power base? He shook himself out of his morose thoughts and nodded to Marcus to call the column to order again.

“Legio, Ad signa!” _Legion, Fall in._ “Moveo!” _March._

As the column set off again, hoping to reach the city of Eboracum by nightfall, the messenger left them, heading back to the fort he had come from with a brief message that the words had been read and understood. The messenger system was efficient, going from fort to fort along the system of roads the army had constructed, picking up a fresh horse from every stop. Gregorius watched him go, wondering. Part of him wondered if he shouldn’t have had the hapless bugger waylaid and done away with, simply so he could later swear that the Flavius’ message had not been delivered.

 _Gods, what is this life doing to me,_ he thought? _Such a dishonourable course of action to consider…_ He grinned mirthlessly as the old adage came to mind, _don’t shoot the messenger_. How many times had that happened? Messengers were not idiots, they knew the dangers. He spurred his horse on, ignoring its whinnied protests. As they set off again, the heavens opened in earnest and the rain pelted down. Gregorius threw up the hood of his cloak and kept his head down.

0000000000

“They’re sending the Victrix.” The speaker was a small compact man dressed in the clothes of a tribesman of the Brigantes, the tribe local to Ebor. He was accompanied by a tall thin man with an unruly shock of dark, almost black, curls, too-pale eyes piercing the man who sat on the ornately carved chair in the hall of the Governor’s residence. The thin man’s cheekbones were prominent, eyes slanted in otherworldly regard, full lips trying to hold back a sneer. He looked vaguely raven-like, and the black feathers adorning the shoulders of his cloak did nothing to dispel the image. The seated man regarded the two men thoughtfully as he said, “Where did you get this intelligence, John?” 

“Scouts,” John replied, matter-of-factly. He was militarily efficient, having served with honour in one of the Auxiliary Legions for more than two decades, being medically discharged after being wounded. He still walked with a limp but he was ruthless with a sword in his hand. He was also not one to miss approaching danger. He commanded a troop of well-trained scouts that the Proconsul was pleased to be able to say were on his side. The man was also a noted healer, _an odd dichotomy,_ Mycroft thought, _killer and healer wrapped up in one package._ John’s companion peeled himself away from the window and moved with grace to John’s side. He was taller, and on examination would be seen to bear a familial resemblance to the Proconsul himself. 

“Sherlock...what do the Fates say?” Mycroft asked.

“The Fates are silent, for the moment.” 

“Interesting. No auguries, no omens in the skies?”

“I saw a cow facing west yesterday, horns to the sky, and the clouds were weeping…” Sherlock rolled his eyes and fixed his brother with a condescending look. “Oh, for the Gods own sakes, Mycroft, I do not see omens with every breath I take. Not every cow is predicting failure and if the milk is sour it is not always the Gods giving us a sign.” 

“Your observations have yielded results in the past. I merely considered to ask if you had anything of note to offer.”

“Had I _anything of note to offer_ ,” he replied, parroting the Proconsul, “you would already be in receipt of it. I am not a performing seal…”

“No, you are a Druid Priest of the Brigantes and your skills are legendary. That is why I ask you, as my half-brother, for your advice.” 

“And this is your half-brother telling you to think for yourself once in a while. You are the smart one, Mycroft. Use that brain and work out what you are going to say to the no-doubt high ranking officer they are sending to terminate your control over this area.” 

“There’s no indication of that, Sherlock,” John said. 

“There is every indication, John,” Mycroft contradicted gently, for once agreeing with his younger sibling. “Word from Rome is that the Emperor, mad as he is, is bringing Rome down and everything with it. The Empire will fragment, and we need to consolidate our hold on this portion of it. The General they sent will no doubt have orders to remove me and take the IXth back to Londinium. I am not the only proconsul who has amassed an army and land and support, and one of my contacts in Rome has already suggested that they will pull the army back to Rome to support the Senate. They want rid of Moriarty but his General Sebastianus is strong. He has the main bulk of what is left of the army under his command. They cannot take down Moriarty without first winning Sebastianus over, or defeating him, which is unlikely with their current resources. However, the Emperor blames us, the proconsuls who are only planning for the future, for bleeding Rome dry of her power and lands. Eboracum’s tributes have never waned, despite the doubts, nor have others who do the same as I. It is not we who are draining Rome, but the Emperor feels threatened by anyone who is not under his direct control.”

“And so it begins,” Sherlock murmured.

“What begins, brother?”

“I foresaw an East Wind, brother, did I not say at Saturnalia? An East Wind is coming, and with it, downfall. Whose I cannot tell. He is an east wind, brother, this man, this general...” 

“We should make ready to welcome the legio VI Victrix then. It is nearly Lupercalia. That should keep them entertained for a while.”

“You should poison him, brother. Make it look like he died in his sleep… I have the perfect concoction.”

“Sherlock, I will think on what I must do. Now, please, leave me. We have a while yet before they arrive. Everything must seem normal, so please, no preemptive actions on your part.” 

John bowed, and dragged Sherlock out, despite the latter not being reluctant to follow. He wrapped himself around John as they left. Mycroft watched, and allowed himself a smile. The pair of them were...content. 

His half-brother was the product of their father taking a wife from a local tribe after Mycroft’s mother had succumbed to illness shortly after they had arrived in the city when Mycroft was only seven. He had argued that Mycroft needed a mother, and the young Brigantian woman had loved him as though he were her own. She bore Sherlock and Eurus, but on his father’s death, had returned to her tribe taking the children with her. Eighteen year old Mycroft returned to Rome where Uncle Remus had taken him under his political wing and taught him oratory and politics and law. A rising star in the Senate, Mycroft had become an omnipotent power behind the Emperor’s throne. However, he had applied for, and got, the governorship of Eboracum, like his father before him, on seeing Moriarty’s rise to power. He had got out while the going was good. A far flung corner of the Empire was the best place to be, escaping the worst excesses of a mad Emperor and his cronies. For the most part, the place was prosperous. Tribute was sent back to Rome so no complaint could be raised, and nobody had bothered them, until now…

00000000

The first cohort of the VI Victrix rode into the city at dusk, just as the gates were closing. Gregorius had sent a rider ahead to inform the watch that they were on their way, so the guards would expect them. They halted at the towers and a man came out, holding a lantern. 

“Who is in charge?” he snapped. “You should have waited until tomorrow.”

One of the Tribunes spurred his horse forward, almost crowding the man. “And who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

“Augustus Cassius, Sentinel of the North Gate, by order of the Proconsul,” came the reply. “Who wants to know?”

Gregorius wanted to leap from the back of his horse, to march over to the man, grab him by his lorica and demand he be more respectful, but he took the safer route and dismounted more slowly, albeit less dramatically. He didn’t trust his legs not to collapse under him after being so long in the saddle if he tried any heroics, so as it was he limped into the man’s personal space, even though his greater height could still force him backward. Even without the drama, the silver breastplate caught the lantern light and the man visibly paled. “General Gregorius Octavian Silvanus, Legate of the Legio VI Victrix. I respectfully suggest you allow my men inside and quickly. They have been on the road for days. The other cohorts can camp outside of the city walls but you will admit my First Cohort and guide us to barracks. Now. I have an appointment to keep with the Proconsul.”

“Ave, Legate, I meant no offense but...it is late. We were not told of your arrival…” 

“Too bad, Sentinel. The VI Victrix is here, like it or not.” Grigorius grabbed his horse’s reins and made it into the saddle again without disgracing himself, daring it to disobey. His horse must have been tired too because it refused to budge. “I swear this animal was sent by demons…Move, you…” he kicked it and it grudgingly moved forward, slowly. The tribunes followed and the cohort fell into step behind them. 

“They’re here, my lord,” a soft voice murmured, doing its best not to intrude too rudely on his solitude. Mycroft turned to look at the speaker, a beautiful woman with wavy dark hair and dark eyes. She smiled. “How are you, lord?”

“Tired. Thank you, Anthea. Would you wait at the door? Doubtless the man will want to come to me tonight. I suspect a man such as he won’t be fobbed off with tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Certainly, lord. Is there refreshment I can order for you both?”

“Sherberts and wine, I suppose. The man will be tired, but proud. I think some cold meats and fresh breads?”

“Certainly, sir. Should I send for your bodyguard?”

“A wise thing to do. However, stay hidden, and make sure the guard remains discreet. What I have to say to the man will be sensitive. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Proconsul.” 

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you, Anthea.”

Gregorious made sure his men were settled before he went to the Governor’s residence, aided by a man from the IXth assigned to him as a guide. There were enough barracks empty to house the first cohort and the rest were pitching tents on the land beyond the walls, on the other side of the river. They would be there to watch for the arrival of the other cohorts on the morrow. He would go about getting them housed properly in the next few days. The man marched them through the fortress, down roads Gregorius could probably have navigated in the dark. Every fortress was built along similar lines, a pattern readily recognisable to every soldier in the Legions. Gregorius limped along behind, his injury slowing him, making life difficult again. The man slowed, waiting respectfully. Gregorius huffed in annoyance. _Probably thinks I’m a liability and should retire, the whelp,_ he thought morosely. 

The young man eventually lead them to a large villa set to one side of the Basilica building in the center, on through it’s gate and into the atrium beyond, an open-roofed reception area that during summer would allow light and warmth into the building. Now all that could be seen was frost building on the scrubby plants in the vases around the place, and ice forming on the square pool in the center. Light spilled out of the door ahead of them and a lovely young woman came out to meet them, wrapped in a warm fur. 

“General,” she said, warmly. “Come within. The Proconsul is expecting you.”

Gregorius frowned. Nobody should be expecting him. She wasn’t even fazed by his arrival. He began to wonder what was going on. 

The main doors were shut behind them with a dull but heavy thud, and barred against the night. Trying not to feel trapped inside, he followed the woman into a large well-appointed room lit by candles and braziers, warmth and light holding back the freezing night. Frescoes decorated the walls, and the floor was mosaiced with a complicated pattern. There were comfortable couches placed around the room, furs on the floor and the furniture, tables scattered about burdened with baskets of breads and platters of meats. Gregorius’ mouth watered at the sight.

Someone cleared their throat pointedly. Gregorius whirled to find a tall lean man standing in the doorway. He was draped in the traditional toga, purple edging indicative of rank and title. His hair was aflame on his head, and his eyes were blue grey, staring warmly down his patrician aquiline nose. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years of age.

“Welcome to Eboracum, General. I am Proconsul Holmes. Please, be seated. Rest, eat. Can I offer you something to drink? Wine perhaps?” 

Gregorius stood there, speechless. He swallowed. _Oh, Jupiter...that voice… nobody warned me he would be quite so charismatic...or handsome… and why does he have to be so...hospitable?_ “I...yes, thank you.” Gregorius snapped to attention, belatedly remembering his manners. “General Gregorius Octavian Silvanus, at your service, sir.” The man smiled and nodded acknowledgement, raising an arm to shepherd him into the room and toward one of the couches. Gregorius was suddenly aware of his roughened state, his armour splattered with mud from the journey, his hair flattened and sweaty from wearing his helmet. He was still armed to the teeth, gladius and pugio still on his belt. He probably stank, of sweat and horse and leather. He was not fit to sit in this genteel room with its silks and furs… and this elegant man…

“No!” he exclaimed, pulling away. “I really shouldn’t. I’m sorry...I...really, I am sorry. I am not fit to grace your home, Proconsul. I did not cleanse myself before I came here. We arrived late, and I did not want to delay my meeting with you. I apologise.” Gregorius bowed low from the waist. 

The Proconsul smiled. “I appreciate your haste, and your honesty. However, you do not need to be ashamed of your appearance. You are a soldier, and an experienced one at that, who has lately come from a long march to get here. Your men obviously took precedence, you would not come here until they were comfortably situated. So please sit, and when you have taken refreshment, I expect you to make use of my bathhouse. I would also appreciate it if you would be my guest while you are here. I have a room and a bed ready for you. You must be very tired.”

“You are very generous, Sir.”

“Nonsense. A servant of Rome like yourself deserves my respect. Please, say yes, General.” He clapped his hands and a servant appeared. “Please have a barrel of our best ale sent to the barracks for the Legio VI Victrix. In fact, make that a barrel per barrackhouse. A present to welcome them here. Make sure you send some to the temporary camp across the river as well. In fact, make that…” he paused. “How many men have you?”

“Around one thousand tonight, two cohorts. There will be a few thousand more arriving tomorrow.”

“Take a waggon load tomorrow. Twenty barrels?” 

“You are indeed generous, sir.”

“Nonsense. That will hardly deplete our stores. We are well appointed here, General. Eboracum has plenty.” Plenty of what he didn’t say. “So, please, you will be my guest, yes?”

“Very well…” There wasn’t much left to say. He did not want to anger the man, and despite the calm kind exterior, this man had not reached his rank by family alone. Gregorius watched as the man clapped his hands and slaves appeared, carrying platters of fresh baked breads and sweetmeats. Gregorius was aware he was being watched, and realised with a shock that this was a test. The Proconsul was intelligent, that much he had been informed of, but he was actively making note which slaves his guest was interested in. _Two can play at that game,_ Gregorius thought, and let his eyes wander to two lovely girls who were obviously twins, with glossy blond hair and blue eyes. They smiled at him as they served him wine, bowing so low that their ample breasts were almost exposed to his gaze. He let his fingers brush theirs as he took his wine glass from one and a breadcake from the other. He also let his eyes linger over a pretty young man who served him sweetbreads with a grin. He let his gaze follow the boy out the room, deliberately admiring his arse. Maybe that was the way to reach the Proconsul? Gregorius turned, smiling at his host. No, one did not maintain a position like this on birthright alone. Keeping it, and maximising on it as he obviously had done, took more than mere looks or family connections. There was steel there beneath the surface. 

_Accepting his hospitality is probably a mistake,_ the General considered, sipping the wine, _but my God, this is good._ He took another sip. _A pity if he’s poisoned it,_ he thought. _Although, what a way to die, in luxury, in the presence of beauty, and with a full stomach._ Many could claim much less. He would take it over a painful death bleeding out on some frost-covered battle ground any day. He was too old for heroics and posthumous rewards as a hero of the Empire. He should retire somewhere warm, a villa by the coast, with dogs and horses and slave girls.... Allow old age to take him gently into the Elysian Fields. Instead he was here in this Godforsaken country, cold, wet, aching and exhausted...

 _This is really not fair,_ Gregorius thought, resentfully. _Why does he have to be… charismatic, attractive, kind? Why couldn’t he be ugly, mean, and morose?_ Mycroft Holmes was sharply intelligent, not to mention pragmatic and practical, probably a joy to discourse with _, and yet,_ Gregorius thought regretfully… 

_...he’s the man I have been sent halfway across the Empire to kill..._


	2. Alea Jacta Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregorius finds himself somewhat at the mercy of the man he has been sent to kill...

The evening wore on, and Gregorius did his best to pay attention to his host as Mycroft rambled on about the benefits of living in this corner of the Empire; how prosperous Eboracum was, how exotic the goods in the markets were, rivalling Rome for variety and quality. He waxed lyrical about the abundance of food and drink available in the city, as well as the fertile farmland in the area. He even extolled the virtues of the extensive woodland, the yew trees that grew down the river, the oaks and hazel for building. Gregorius listened for a while, he truly did, nodding sagely now and then, but it wasn’t long before his arduous journey began to catch up with him. He was aware that some of his aches were actually getting worse. He reached for a small cake and grunted with the sudden sharp stab of pain through his shoulder. Fighting that bloody horse had probably reopened the wound… He closed his eyes against a sudden unwelcome wave of dizziness, aware of the increasing heat in the room, the stifling smells that made him feel somewhat nauseous. He took another mouthful of wine but it tasted bitter upon his tongue. He felt his wits begin to stray…

He tried to rise, to excuse himself to get some air, but he reeled, his balance compromised. Dizziness assailed him again, and his head began to throb. Strong hands grabbed and gripped him, voices called out, but he felt himself falling, his last conscious thought being that he shouldn’t have trusted the Proconsul’s hospitality so readily.

**00000000000**

He woke to daylight spilling through the shuttered windows of a room he did not remember. Frescos on the walls depicted hunting scenes. There were marble statues of Minerva, Vesta and Flora in the corners of the room. A long low couch sat against one wall and a table stood under the single window. A brazier glowed, warming the air, and his bed was covered in furs. For a moment he lay quiet, assessing. His whole body ached and he couldn’t suppress the groan when he tried to move. 

“Easy there,” said a quiet voice. “Just rest. You’re quite safe.”

Gregorius blinked sleep from his eyes, blearily trying to focus on whoever his visitor was. He failed. “Who…?” It came out as a croak, barely intelligible. 

“You’ve been quite ill, General. Take your time. You won’t be strong enough to rise yet. Don't fret yourself about your troops, your Tribunes have reassured themselves of your continued safety and have overseen the billeting of your cohorts.”

“Safety? You...You fucking poisoned me!” 

Mycroft laughed. “Had I poisoned you, General, you would not be waking up. Indeed, I was in two minds as to whether to leave you to die. My brother was the one persuaded me otherwise.” Gregorius frowned, trying to take it all in. “Your injuries were poisoning you, not I,” Mycroft explained. “Indeed, John was rather vocal about shoddy work concerning the treatment of your wounds. You should have informed me that you were injured. We could have had you tended to the moment you arrived.” Mycroft leaned over and held a delicately wrought blue glass beaker to the General’s lips. Gregorius took a good gulp of the clear cool water on offer. It took some of the foul taste out of his mouth and lubricated his throat to let him speak. 

“So who healed me?”

“John, my...bodyguard. He is a man of the Brigantes, the tribe local to these parts. He’s an accomplished soldier, he was an auxiliary for more than two decades before they discharged him after he was wounded during the recent battles with the Picts further north. He is an odd mix of mender and breaker. He is an accomplished healer as well as soldier. Seen his share of battle injuries. You were lucky he was here.”

“Should I thank you?” Gregorius frowned. “You said you were in two minds as to whether to leave me to die.”

Mycroft sighed. “You were sent here to kill me, were you not? Extending my hospitality and my physician are hardly the prudent thing to do for a man who is to be my assassin, would you not agree?”

“I don’t have to be.” 

“No? Ah, I see. As long as I capitulate to the whims of our mad Emperor, I’m safe, is that it? Let me see, I allow you to take both the VIth and the IXth back with you to Londinium, and thence to Rome, and agree to your leaving a nominal force to guard the city until you return. I’m right, aren’t I? Such a force would hold the walls in the event of an invasion, hm? I very much doubt that this ‘nominal force’ of men you intend to leave behind could hold back a high wind, never mind an onslaught from across the water.” It was Gregorius’ turn to smile, which turned quickly into a moue of discomfort as the muscles pulled across his ribs and down his back. “You were quite sick, so I dare say you’ve strained your stomach muscles. Rest easy, General. Your presence here is, perhaps, a discussion for another time.” 

Gregorius shifted unhappily. There was an insistent urge to pee that was getting more insistent by the minute. Mycroft noticed the squirming and frowned. “What ails you, General?”

“I...need to… Oh, fuck, I need to pee…”

“Is that all?” Mycroft reached across a nearby table for a large glass bottle with a wide rim. It was empty. He flipped the edge of the fur up that was covering the General’s prone form and slotted the bottle neatly over his prick. The man yelped at the touch of the cold glass, then groaned at a sudden pain in one thigh. Mycroft tut-tutted and smiled wryly. “Come now, Gregorius, move your good leg to the side or do you wish to be covered in piss?” Gregorius grudgingly bent his good leg at the knee to accommodate the body of the bottle at a better angle. Mycroft’s warm fingers brushed his thigh. To pee was to both trust Mycroft to handle the bottle safely, and to try to ignore the gentle hands as they helped him find relief. Deftly, Mycroft removed the bottle once he had finished, and flipped a cloth over it to hide the contents from view. He placed it safe on a shelf. “John will no doubt want to check the colour when he calls.”

“He’s a proper physician then?”

“Lord, no. John is more experienced in treating trauma than a mere physician. He trained with the physicians in his cohort and his dexterity lead to him practicing surgery. The man is no ignorant tribesman, he has a good brain.”

“Nice to hear someone thinks well of me,” John said, breezing into the room, a grin on his handsome features. “So, how is my patient today?” he said, dropping a heavy cloth bag onto the floor by the bed. The small man took Gregorius’ wrist in one of those dexterous hands, his fingers unerringly finding the pulse beat there and measuring it. 

“Less than my best,” the General growled. “I gather I have you to thank for my life?”

“Well, did my best for you, although it was touch and go for a while. You could have died. Your fever was so high. Mycroft insisted we immersed you in the cold plunge pool, bring your temperature down. Good job you have a strong heart.” 

“Am I to gather that worked then?”

John smiled. “I rather think it did.”

“Your patient passed water recently,” Mycroft informed him. “It is on the shelf there, in case you wish to inspect.”

“Good. Any trouble passing water?” Gregorius shook his head. “That’s fine.” John took the cloth off and peered at the contents. “Nice and clear, good colour, no blood. I think you’re on the way to a proper recovery.” 

“I’m damnably weak…”

“To be expected. Your body has been in a battle against infection. Your collapse was four days ago.” John checked the hefty bandaging on his patient’s shoulder. “I’m going to redress your wounds in a moment. Might not be pleasant, but it’s necessary…”

“I can stand it,” Gregorius assured the man gruffly. “I’ve suffered worse, but be honest, Healer. Just how bad is it?”

“As long as you do as you’re told and rest, you should be fine, in time.” John’s expression grew ugly. “I wish I knew the person who did this to you,” he said, angrily. “Whoever did it didn’t clean the wounds or cauterise them properly. Could have killed you. Whoever he was, he’s not worth being called a healer!”

“It was my own fault,” Gregorius confessed. “The Legion was in action with a rebellion in the south. My superior ordered us north the day after we arrived back in Londinium, and I had no time to have my injuries properly looked at. The man put poultices on the worst, but they obviously didn’t draw out as much of the muck as they might have…”

“You rode all the way here?”

“I did.”

“Must have hurt you.”

Gregorius shrugged. “Pain is the lifelong companion of a soldier, Healer. You ought to know that.”

“It can be mitigated, though,” John argued. “You shouldn’t have had to suffer that much.”

Gregorius shrugged again. “I could not lead troops were I dull-witted with morphia. Better to remain sharp, despite the pain.” 

“Stubborn as an ass, all of you officers,” John complained.

“I shall endeavour to be an obedient patient, Healer.”

“Call me John.”

“Great Gods!” Gregorius exclaimed. “W.w.what are you?” He was staring over John’s shoulder, looking rather alarmed at the sudden appearance of the black-clad form of Sherlock looming in the door. The breeze ruffled the feathers on his cloak and his eyes turned inquisitively on the man in the bed. 

John turned and sighed in exasperation. “For goodness’ sake. Sherlock, stop acting all...dramatic, with your feather collar and your cheekbones. You’re unsettling my patient. This is Sherlock, half-brother to Mycroft, and fellow Brigantian. He is our Druid…”

“All the Druids are dead.”

“Yeah, well, about that…”

“I am certainly not dead, nor am I a figment of your imagination, General. You are no longer fevered, so remain calm. I have no quarrel with you.” 

“You...how can you be a druid?”

“I lived in Hibernia in my youth,” he explained. “The island has never fallen to your conquering army, and the druids there taught me. I came back a few years since, rejoined my tribe, and met up again with my half-brother, who is now in the enviable position of being Proconsul of this city.”

“I won’t say it was an emotional reunion, but we are in accord,” Mycroft said dryly from the sidelines. “Our father married Sherlock’s mother after mine died when I was seven, not so long after we moved here. He always blamed the weather for her ill-health, but she had been ill since before we moved. My old nurse told me so. Ceine was a sea breeze to my mother’s motherly warmth. She was a free spirit, a princess of her tribe, and a seeress to boot. It was she who taught Sherlock some of what he knows..."

"When she could teach me no more, she sent me to Hibernia," Sherlock added. "The Druids were impressed with my knowledge, and I had it all from her."

"She was loving," Mycroft explained, taking up the story again. "She guided us both, but when my father died, she went back to her tribe, and took Sherlock and our sister Eurus with her. I...I was eighteen, a man grown, and I sought to lead. So I went back to Rome, met up with uncle Remus, and spent my time training in law and politics. I was elected to the Senate when I was twenty two, and served there for more than a decade. When that madman came to power, I saw the signs, so I applied for governorship of somewhere in Albion, and got this. The rest, as they say, is history.” 

“You have a half-sister?”

“Had,” Mycroft and Sherlock both said in unison.

“She died in childbirth,” Sherlock admitted. “She was only eighteen. The baby died with her.” 

“My condolences,” Gregorius murmured.

“No need. She was not...not a pleasant person.” Sherlock looked away and Gregorius knew better than to ask any more. 

“Well,” John said, having removed the dressing on his patient’s leg while the man was distracted by the conversation, “looks better than I thought it would.” Sherlock peered over his shoulder. 

“Your use of maggots is interesting, John. A worthy technique.” 

“They only eat dead flesh, not living. They clean out a bad wound very efficiently. I’ll redress this with honey and a poultice of herbs of my own recipe, and then you should be fine in a few weeks.” 

Reserves of patience exhausted, Sherlock whirled and strode to the door. “John, I shall await you outside,” he announced. “No doubt Gavrinus there has plenty of help without my interference…” 

“It’s Gregorius,” the General snapped at Sherlock’s retreating back.

“Don’t mind him. Took six months before he actually called me by my given name. That’s just the way he is,” John explained. “He might be on the side of the Christians’ angels but he really isn’t one of them. However, he is brilliant at what he does. You’ll see if you’re here for long enough. Now, let’s get that shoulder seen to. Mycroft, may need your help here…”

**00000000000**

“Now, you take it gently on that leg, when you feel strong enough to get up. The muscle is wasted, not to mention damaged. It may never work completely effectively again, but you shouldn’t lose the use of it. Exercise is the key,” John said as he finished rebinding the General’s shoulder again. “Gently at first, to build up what’s left of the muscle, and don’t risk riding again until you are properly healed. I’ll find you crutches to help you move about, and you will use them. Understand? However, your shoulder won’t support you yet. You’ll need to allow it to heal properly first.”

“Yes, Healer,” Gregorius replied meekly. 

“Good. Mind you obey. I know your type,” John said as he went about tidying his tools and medicines away. He took everything to the table to better sort it all out. 

Gregorius chuckled. “My type?” 

John turned back toward him. “Soldiers,” he said, exasperated. “Always too fucking impatient, the lot of you. Don’t think I don’t know. If you do too much, you’ll undo all my hard work. So mind you don’t, alright?” He waggled a cautery iron in his patient’s direction.

Gregorius sighed, put-upon. Mycroft chuckled. “Very well, John.” 

“Good. No funny business, alright?” 

Mycroft helped their patient lie back down again. He had helped support Gregorius as John redressed his shoulder, sitting far too close for comfort while the healer worked. The business of redressing his injuries had worn Gregorius out, and the General yawned mightily. He was obviously still in pain. It was manageable, but he couldn’t keep the grimace from his face. “Oh, Gods, I am getting too long in the tooth for this…” he groaned softly. 

Mycroft joined John at the table and leaned in, whispering something to the healer, who glanced back at his patient, assessingly. Then he nodded, fishing in his bag again. He handed a small vial to Mycroft. “Four drops in a small glass of water, no more, no less. It’s potent stuff. Poppy juice. It’ll dull the pain, let him get some rest. Take care of it though, because it’s also lethal. Never give more than four drops. Got that?”

“Yes, John. Four drops, no more.” 

“The whole bottle will kill a man, depress his breathing, stop his heart. It would be a gentle death, but it’s still death.”

“You are trusting me with this, John? This man was sent to kill me.”

“And he’s totally at your mercy now, and you’ve not seen fit to dispatch him yet. I think if you’d been going to, you’d already have done so, so I think I can trust you, yes.” 

Mycroft smiled and reached for a small glass, filling it with water from an intricately wrought glass jug. He added the four drops with care. “Does he have to drink the whole glass, John?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, seating himself on the bed by Gregorius’ head. He held the glass out, fitting it to the man’s lips. “Drink, let yourself rest. This will ease your pain for a while.” Obediently, the man drank the contents, grimacing at the slightly bitter taste. His eyes slid shut soon after. 

John watched the exchange. “Mycroft?”

“Hm?” Mycroft was watching the man sleep. 

“Rome breeds some handsome ones, does she not?”

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. He’s a little rough and ready, as they say. Unsophisticated, somewhat plebeian. He is not aristocracy, that much is sure. However…” _Gregorius was...glorious_ , his mind provided unhelpfully. The man was big and broad, shoulders and chest and... _everything_. Large hands, heavy thighs, strong legs...despite his injury. His face was rugged, stubbled from being too long on the road. His eyes... His eyes were dark brown, like a stag in his prime. He was defiant, too, like a stag; defending his territory, claiming his does. His hair was silvered, _Silvanus indeed_ , but his face said he was younger than his hair suggested. He was...well endowed too, and there was no possible way Mycroft had been able to ignore _that_. The man’s eyes had revealed that he appreciated both sexes, if what Mycroft had observed during their supper was the truth, although the man was intelligent, and he may have been shamming. Somehow, though, Mycroft suspected not, and that made it worse.

 _Let him kill me,_ Mycroft thought, in despair. _It will be a kindness._ He had been lying when he said Sherlock had been the sole reason why he had allowed the man to live, that it had been his brother who had persuaded Mycroft to save the man. It had not been the sole reason. 

_Oh, Gods, I am lost,_ Mycroft thought, unhappily.


	3. Permitte Divis Cetera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregorius recovers, Mycroft helps, Sherlock is worried, and John is along for the ride...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the 'Lost Legion of the IXth'. It has been the subject of story and legend, but the Legio IX Hispana was the one referred to as the lost because it disappears from records in 120AD, or shortly thereafter. The Romans being such good record keepers, this seems unusual, which is what has puzzled historians for so long. However, inscriptions to the IX Hispana have been found at a legionary base in Nijmegen (Netherlands), post dating 120AD. However, nothing more seems to be known. Two surviving lists of legions present in 197AD do not include it. Should a legion lose its standard, this was considered a shameful act, something that it would be punished for. The standard was its battle honours and losing that might have resulted in the whole legion being disbanded as punishment. A significant defeat could result in the same thing, a disbanding of what was left of the troops who would be sent to other legions. Since the IX was known to be in Eboracum, I have included it here, for the purposes of the story.

“Just how long am I going to be kept a prisoner in this room?” The testy voice was getting stronger, Mycroft noted, as he approached the room in question. The General's slave, Andus, was clearing things onto a tray, looking harrassed.

“Have patience, General,” the Proconsul said, an affable smile on his face as he entered the room. “There's no need to browbeat your staff.” 

Gregorius was beginning to realise that the smile was a mask, something the man wore on a regular basis. He had never seen Mycroft adopt any other expression, except perhaps for fond exasperation. It was a week since his collapse and he had been treated exceptionally well. He was feeling stronger, but still unable to get up without his legs trembling with the effort. He had tried the day before and Mycroft had promptly placed a moratorium on his leaving the bed until he was recovered sufficiently to move without risk of falling. Gregorius had been affronted at the restriction and had visibly bridled. He was still chaffing at the restriction it seemed.

“Come now, General. Every soldier appreciates when to make a strategic retreat, to regroup."

"I never retreat," the General growled, exasperated with his host. 

"Then perhaps it is time you learned," Mycroft said firmly. He was aware that the man's slave was looking from one to the other in worried silence. "Don't fret for your master," Mycroft said. "I suspect he will see sense soon. If not...well, there are other masters..."

"Oi!" came the indignant exclamation. "Kindly do not bring my slave into this. I am his master and I will stay his master until I say otherwise. Andus, clear this stuff away and then get yourself over to Marcus at the Barracks. Ask him to call on me soon. At his earliest convenience, please."

"Certainly, sir. If that is all?"

"Thank you, Andus, yes, that is all for now."

Gregorius and Mycroft watched Andus flee the room. "Poor Sod," Gregorius muttered. "He didn't sign on for this..."

"He is a slave," Mycroft retorted. "He did not get the chance to _sign on_ at all. One such as he should expect anything, literally anything. However, I doubt this is the worst he's ever had to deal with." Gregorius was silent at that, and looked down at the bed covers. Mycroft became brisk, clapping his hands together. "Anyway, I think I might have a solution to your conundrum…”

“I wasn’t aware you’d presented me with any riddles.”

“I was referring to your desire to leave this room,” Mycroft said. “If you cannot do so under your own auspices, then you require help, and seeing as how you have just dispatched your own help on an errand, you can borrow some of mine. Rhodri?” he called. A young man, Gregorius recognised him as the one from that first night, came in the door, followed by another man who was broader and slightly older. The older one had a dark beard, where Rhodri was clean shaven. 

_Young enough not have started growing one,_ Gregorius thought, _and yet most possibly willing to warm my bed if asked_. 

“Rhodri and Bran will help you,” Mycroft said.

“Help me, how?”

“They can carry you. Go get the litter, would you, please?” They both disappeared out the door and returned a little later, one carrying a solid-looking chair with arms and a pair of odd wrought metal loops on each side, the other carrying two stout poles. The poles were slotted through the loops, one to each side. They stuck out fore and aft of the chair, enough for a man to stand between them.

“Sit and you shall be born aloft to wherever you wish.”

“Gods, Mycroft...I am not the Emperor.”

“Thank goodness. Ten of him would not add up to one of you. Now let’s get you up.” Gregorius wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. 

The main living area was spacious and attractive, but too cold. It was a big room, perfect for entertaining, but not in the least bit easy to heat in winter. The house was decorated throughout with murals on the walls, the floors sporting mosaics in intricate arrays of knotwork borders surrounding pictures of beasts both real and mythical. Gregorius was carried without incident, both men being strong enough to be well up to the task in hand, through the house and into another smaller room which turned out to be Mycroft’s dining room, the low tables and couches having been placed out of the way against the walls. “This room overlooks the _hortus_ ,” Mycroft said, “but it’s far too cold to have the windows or door open, and frankly it looks a little dismal in the winter. When you are stronger, we can take a walk outside. I would still love to show it to you, despite the lack of greenery. Of course, the climate here necessitates different plants than you find in Italia, but some grow here just as well. There are roses, and I have peach trees on the wall, so we have fruit in season. There is some space for an _oleraor_ too. I am quite keen on being at least partially self-sufficient in vegetables for the kitchen.” 

A brazier was glowing in the center of the room, the room’s smaller size making it a lot easier to keep warm. The tiled floor was warm too. The murals here were of plants and flowers and trees, bringing the outside world within the house. Gregorius found himself mesmerized by the paintings, which were artfully done. Girls clad in flowing gossamer dresses danced between the trees, trailing flowers from overflowing baskets that they clutched to their breasts. Scantily clad youths, their dark curls wreathed with vines heavy with grapes, peered around the trees. In their delicate hands they grasped overflowing glasses of wine and smiled invitingly at the girls. Gregorius could imagine that a young Sherlock might easily have modelled for the artist, all coltish limbs and wild dark curly hair. The whole theme was very Bacchanalian. 

The two men carrying him had deposited the chair gently on the floor and removed the poles while Mycroft was speaking, leaving Gregorius seated there. Mycroft solicitously spread a fur across his knees and a blanket around his shoulders but Gregorius huffed in annoyance. “I am not an old uncle in his dotage,” he complained.

“That you are not,” Mycroft agreed. “You are wounded, you have been ill, and you are recovering. You are, to all intents and purposes, an invalid. You need to accept that you are healing, and accept that you cannot expect to act as though nothing had happened to you. See sense, General. You are not fit to walk. Therefore, inactive as you are, you will not stay warm without some help. Hence the need for those blankets. Please do not be stubborn.”

Gregorius sighed. “You make a good argument, but it still doesn’t help.” Mycroft fixed him with a look that Gregorius’ own mother would have been proud of. The General grinned, in spite of himself. “You know, I do wonder if you knew my mother.”

“Beg pardon?” Mycroft was nonplussed by the comment. 

“I think you might have taken lessons from her, giving me that look. She used to look at me that way when I was being particularly stubborn.”

“It is a look I have perfected since my brother arrived in the world. He provokes it on a regular basis.” 

“I can see why.” The two men shared a moment of accord and smiled in wry amusement. Bratty younger siblings seemed to be something they had in common. More servants arrived to bring them refreshments, forestalling further conversation. They laid one of the tables with platters of food, a jug of warmed spiced wine and two cups. Mycroft moved to pour the wine, grateful for the distraction. The fragrant steam curled around him as he did so.

Gregorius watched him move about, admiring the innate grace and poise in Mycroft’s every motion. He had presence and charm, dignity and elegance in everything he did. Gregorius found that he was enjoying watching the man far too much. There were few men who had managed to capture his regard the way the Proconsul did. He would later remember that this was the moment when he made his mind up that the drastic option his orders allowed would not be enacted upon. There had to be another way. There was something altogether different about this man. He did not strike Gregorius as being the same as most Roman aristos. There was little or no arrogance, a quiet gravitas, a generosity Gregorius knew to be uncommon in such persons. 

“You have a hypocaust?” Gregorius asked, for something to say. 

“What self-respecting villa does not in this country?” Mycroft answered. “It is winter, and that means we heat the house or freeze, and we cannot afford to freeze.” Mycroft requested that the servants leave them in privacy and sent them off to the kitchens to find something to eat for themselves. He assured he would call for them when they were needed to convey the General back to his bed.

“You treat your servants well,” Gregorius commented.

“I treat them fairly. If I expect them to work for me, I need them fit and healthy, rested and content. Not cosetted, you understand, but comfortable. They appreciate their station and their living conditions. I make sure they are warm, well fed, sheltered, and cared for. They have food, clothing, and a comfortable place to sleep. In return, I get hard work well done, loyalty, and pleasantness.”

“They do not take advantage?”

“Our house is an agreeable one, General. It has a good reputation in the city. My staff come and go as they please, they are not prisoners. Even my slaves are not restricted to the house. However, all my servants know to comport themselves with dignity and to act with honour when outside these walls. If their actions bring shame to my house, then they will be summarily dealt with. They know that if they disappoint me, they will suffer the consequences. One transgression I can forgive, two requires instruction, perhaps punishment.”

“And three?” 

“They do not get a third chance.”

“Dismissal?”

“I have never yet had the necessity to do so.” Mycroft sounded somewhat smug at that. 

It wasn’t long before Gregorius’ strength began to wane. Mycroft called for the servants to help and they transported him back to his bedroom. Mycroft insisted on helping him get back into bed.

“I think, tomorrow, if you are feeling stronger, you should join me in my bathhouse.”

Gregorius nodded agreement. “Past time I was clean,” he said, lifting an arm and taking an experimental sniff. He wrinkled his nose. “By now I definitely risk offending anyone who comes near me. Did I hear John correctly, you doused me in your plunge pool during my fever?”

“With the healer’s permission, yes, although I am afraid it was not to get you clean, rather a case of kill or cure.” Mycroft offered a small apologetic smile. “There was a chance of stopping your heart with the shock of the cold, but there was no effective way of lowering your temperature other than moving your bed outside, and even then, it would not have been enough. You may thank the gods for your strong heart. Frankly, there was more risk of you dying from your fever than dying in the cold water. You were delirious, obviously hallucinating.”

“Did I...say anything…?”

“Nothing really intelligible, General, and what you did say, nobody here will repeat. Please do not worry.” Mycroft did his best to reassure the man. “The mind creates terrible things sometimes, born of sights and experiences that we suffer in our lives. Doubtless yours have been...particularly harrowing. You are a career soldier, so it stands to reason that your nightmares would be horrific ones. You sometimes cry out in your sleep even now.”

“Gods, I am truly sorry, Mycroft. I have no wish to disturb you, or your household.” 

“Such things are not under your control, as such you are blameless. Please do not fret yourself.” 

“You are entirely too generous.” 

“Nonsense. You are my guest, and accorded every courtesy. You are also John’s patient, and you are recovering from illness. Please, stop castigating yourself.” 

**000000000**

“This is...luxury,” Gregorius said on seeing the well-appointed bathhouse on the side of Mycroft’s villa. He had been carried on the chair again, deposited in the vestibule of the bathhouse and helped into the tepidarium—the warm room—to relax and get undressed. The floors and walls were tiled and mosaiced in lots of soothing blues and greens; dolphins leaping through waves, flying fish, coiled sea serpents and sea horses liberally decorated the place. The whole thing was decadent in the extreme, but if there was one thing Gregorius loved, it was a good bath. 

“There are public baths, and the fortress has its own. It is well served, but this is more...intimate, I feel. Besides, I can relax here. Nobody overlooking us.” Servants descended on them with care, divested them of clothing, which wasn’t much where Gregorius was concerned. He had taken to wearing a long tunic and that was all. He couldn’t be bothered to struggle with more. Both men were lead to the caldarium—the hot room—and subjected to being oiled and then scraped clean. All the while the servants were careful in their handling of him. Gregorius tried to close his eyes and ignore the naked man beside him. Unclothed, Mycroft was all lean muscle and creamy skin, the sign of an aristocrat. He was unused to daily toil in fields, but he was strong, and bore his share of scars. Gregorius filed his observations away for later. 

For Mycroft’s part, he spent the time casting surreptitious glances at his guest, noting the battle scars that criss-crossed his body. The tanned skin, the scars, the strength in his muscles despite his suffering, told a story of long service in the legions, of loyalty to Rome and the skill to survive. There was evidence of the cuts of a whip across his back, though. Gregorius caught him frowning and smiled.

“I was flogged,” he said softly. Mycroft’s soft gasp reached his ears.

“You? What crime did you commit? You carry so many phalerae on your breastplate...”

Gregorius nodded. “Armillae too, but I don’t wear them every day. I was only young, barely a soldier really, not very long in the ranks…” Gregorius cast his mind back. “Seems like yesterday sometimes…I fell foul of a bastard of a centurion. He was the scourge of the legion I was attached to. The man was corrupt, taking bribes, and I found out, stumbled on a meeting where he was taking money… So he framed me, planted evidence I was stealing, hoping to get me out of the way. I was lucky in a way, because my father was aristocracy. There were plenty of people to speak for my honour and trustworthiness, although my father was disappointed in my supposed actions and I was angry about the blot on my record, not to mention his belief that I may have actually done the deed. The sentence was transmuted to flogging in front of the legion, not stoning to death. Good job too or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“What happened to the centurion?”

Gregorius smiled wolfishly. “Killed in battle, a few months later. We found him with an enemy sword embedded in his chest…I guess the fates caught up with him…”

There was something about how Gregorius said the words that caught Mycroft’s attention. “That was...opportune,” he said, carefully.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it? Well, in the midst of a battle, nobody knows what happens. Nobody mourned the bugger’s loss anyway. That man dishonoured the oath with every breath he took. I suppose I have him to thank for my being here though. I decided there and then never to trust anybody, but to work for what I wanted, to be courageous, to uphold everything about the oath I swore or to die trying. I was never a weakling, nor was I a coward.” 

**00000000**

“Ahhh, that’s...so damn good,” Gregorius sank into the hot water of the baths and floated, letting the warmth soak into his abused muscles. Mycroft swam nearby, keeping an eye on the man. 

“Please tell me if you feel dizzy or sick,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Gregorius mumbled, the warm water making him sleepy. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Mycroft said, warningly. “I do not want you to drown…”

Gregorius chuckled. “I won’t. Got you to save me.” 

Mycroft huffed in exasperation. “Do not presume to prey upon my good nature, General,” he warned, but there was no heat in the words. 

“Already done that,” Gregorius murmured, amused. Mycroft laughed. 

**00000000000**

“I should be making plans to return to my legion, the men like to have their commander around. Makes them more settled as a unit.” They were sitting in the tepidarium again, being dried off. They had not stayed in the cold room for long, although they had risked a dip in the plunge pool for health’s sake. Servants brought them more warmed wine, and fresh clothing. 

“Your men like you,” Mycroft observed. “Most commanders are respected, usually out of fear, but you...you are well-liked.” Over the last few days, several of the officers from Gregorius’ legion had made a visit, bringing him reassurances that his men were alright and settled in, and bringing inconsequential things to keep his mind busy and make him feel like he was still essential. Mycroft had noticed their actions with interest. 

“For the most part, I like them. I don’t know many of them personally though. Nearly five thousand men under my leadership and I only know a handful.”

“I doubt anyone would expect you to know more.”

“I know each of my Tribunes, the Camp Prefect, our Standard Bearer, our Primus Pilus, and maybe a few of the centurions, but...after that, well, I am sorry to say I couldn’t recognise every face. However, I strive for fairness in my dealings with them, and I always instill it into my officers. I’ll have no law breaking within the ranks and I abhor treating anyone, enemy or otherwise, in an inhumane way. I know we have a reputation as fearless soldiers, as fierce fighters, but none of my men would ever be allowed to mistreat anyone; man, woman or child.”

“Some legates would not agree…”

“Some legates are bastards and they can go fuck themselves. I aim not to be.”

“High ideals.”

“Achievable ideals, and ones we should all strive for. I’ve never had a problem in maintaining order in my ranks, and the Victrix is known for being successful in battle. You only have to take a look at our Standard to understand that.” 

Mycroft nodded and helped the man to his feet. This time, Gregorius insisted on walking back to his bed. They walked slowly, Gregorius leaning heavily on Mycroft’s shoulder. Helping the man into his bed, Mycroft smoothed the covers and laid a fur across the blankets. “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, although I understand your desire to return to your legion. However, I wish you to treat this place as your home. If you do decide to return to Barracks, I do hope you will visit?”

Gregorius smiled. “Mycroft, you have been very generous, and continue to be so. However, I feel I should not outstay my welcome. You have had enough of your privacy invaded already.”

“Honestly, privacy is akin to loneliness in my case,” Mycroft admitted. “Unless my dear brother visits, I am afraid I have few people whom I can turn to for meaningful conversation. I have enjoyed our discourses.” 

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” 

“Beg pardon?” The straightforwardness of the question blindsided him for a moment.

“Here, out in the sticks. You don't seem suited to such a...backwater as Eboracum.”

“I can assure you, General. Eboracum is far from being a backwater. We are a trading city, an outpost of the Empire, certainly, but a prosperous one.”

“It just...it doesn’t seem to be your natural element, that’s all. I imagine one such as you in the senate, orating and debating.”

“Once upon a time, perhaps,” Mycroft admitted. “That was a long time ago and I am not that person anymore. Now, enough questions. Rest, or you will reverse all the healing you’ve done so far.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t be sullen, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“No, sir.” 

Mycroft couldn’t suppress the smile. “Child,” he murmured, exasperated. “Do as you are told, General. If you don’t, then please do not blame me when you feel terrible in the morning.”

The first of his visitors had been Marcus, Broad Band Tribune and technically second in command, accompanied by the Camp Prefect, Cornelius, a couple of days before. The two men did not stay long, probably reassuring themselves of their Legate’s continued good health more than anything, but they reassured him there was nothing amiss in the Victrix and all its soldiers were now billetted and victualed and were back to training and patrolling and working alongside the IXth. The Centurions were maintaining order as usual and the men reassured their leader that there was nothing to worry him. 

The next visit was again Marcus, this time accompanied by Caius, after Andus had been sent to fetch him. There were six tribunes who took it in turns to manage the Legion, in pairs, turn and turn about. Marcus was most senior, signified by the wide purple band on his garments, the broad band of his title. The others were Tribuni angusticlavii, narrow-band tribunes, of slightly lesser rank, and Caius was Marcus’ work partner. The two men brought their leader a few small administrative problems, which he solved with his usual no-nonsense pragmatism.

“Seriously, Marcus, you could handle these things,” Gregorius complained. 

“Most probably, but you would only complain that you were losing touch with the business of the Legion if we didn’t bring you something.” Marcus smiled, knowingly. 

Caius handed over a parchment. “This came for you a few days ago. It’s from…”

“Flavius, yes, I recognise the hand.” Gregorius almost wanted to toss the thing on the brazier. “I’ll read it later. Did it require a reply?”

“The messenger said not.”

“Good. I shall read it when you are gone then.”

“So...how is the Proconsul?” Marcus ventured to ask.

“Faring well, I believe. He’s...been very accommodating. Kind. Generous.”

“Picked up on that already,” Caius said. “Unusual, in a way.”

“He also seems to be quite fair in his treatment of his servants and slaves. He doesn’t favour punishment, but he doesn’t suffer fools. I am given to understand that his servants and slaves are free to come and go from the house, but woe betide any who bring disrepute upon it. He’s an odd one, but honestly, he’s charismatic enough that I cannot imagine anybody wanting to disappoint him.”

“He’s got a reputation in Rome too,” Caius added. “I was talking to Tribune Nonus. Nonus comes from a good family, his father is a prominent figure in the Senate, and he says he remembers Mycroft Holmes as a good orator, a successful lawyer who served over a decade in the senate, groomed for it by his uncle, Remus Paulinus, himself a Senator. According to Nonus, his father and Holmes’ uncle were quite friendly, so Nonus’ pater had some experience of Holmes as a result. Some of the man’s ideas concerning taxes and commerce were apparently a bit controversial. Nonus says he remembers his father complaining about them but they worked when they were implemented, and quite successfully too. Holmes would apparently take legal cases that other people would shun, and he was successful there as well.”

“Sounds like a successful politician,” Gregorius commented.

“Seems so. Apparently everything pointed to a stellar career; brilliant mind, excellent speaker, successful business, supporters in the Senate and the old Emperor liked him. Then something happened but nobody seemed to know what because he asked for, and got, governorship of Eboracum and left. Nobody with a career like his suddenly opts for a backwater like this on the edges of the empire, not without good reason.”

“Something go wrong? Failed court case? Did he make enemies?”

“Not to Nonus’ knowledge. He says it was odd because a few people were commenting about his abrupt disappearance. There was nothing anyone could put their finger on. If he’d failed to defend a case, then everybody would have known about it. News like that travels like wildfire, but no, nothing.”

“Interesting. So what happened that made him come here, I wonder?”

“Well, Nonus says that his uncle died not much before the Proconsul came here, but that shouldn’t have phased him over much. He was well into his career to stand on his own feet by then. Emperor Jovian died shortly after. That was the only other thing that marked the time as being...well, opportune.”

“Saw the writing on the wall, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Old man Jovian named Moriarty as the next Emperor and the rest is, as they say, history.” 

“Well, I find our Proconsul innocuous, but then, still waters run deep?”

“Deep waters indeed. I would keep him close, General. Know thine enemy.”

“Yes, well, leave me to think on that one. I’m not sure he is our enemy. Right then, do either of you have any other business?”

“Primus Pilus Aetius Decimus has expressed a desire to visit you.”

“Doubtless he wants to make sure you’re not lying and that I really am alive and with my wits intact,” Gregorius commented. “Not such a bad idea. Arrange for him to come on the morrow, though, hm? I think I’ve done all I’m capable of today.”

**000000000**

“Damn it all!” The sound of a crash alerted John that all was not well with his friend.

“Sherlock?” John ducked his head in the roundhouse dwelling that belonged solely to the Druid and surveyed the scene. A bronze dish was upturned on the floor, the dark stain of spilled wine spreading beneath it, the scent sharp on the air. A scatter of herbs lay nearby. “Something wrong?”

“No matter what I do, no matter what I read, every augury points to the same thing. My brother is besotted and in danger…”

“How so?”

“I cast the bones, I’ve read the movement of the birds in the skies, I’ve even read the entrails of a sheep, and you know my opinion of haruspicy…” Voice dripping sarcasm, he shrugged one shoulder eloquently. “I have called upon every power I know, and everything tells me, my brother is bound to that Roman general like a vine choking a tree…”

“Strong then?”

“Very strongly. It’s not healthy, nor is it wise. He is an East Wind, a wind of ill omen, or at the very least, an east wind brings him here. The man has death written all over him.”

“But he’s a Roman general, Sherlock. They _all_ have death surrounding them, they’ve not survived this long without it becoming an intimate friend. Even so, though, you were all for poisoning him when he arrived. Then you suggest to your brother that he should spare him, and that I should offer my services as healer into the bargain. Now you're going all...weird on us, saying as how he's some harbinger of doom. Make your mind up.” 

“That isn’t how I read it, although some of the future seems clouded. I’ve never not been able to see ahead, and something is blocking my attempts. I would say it was him, but he doesn’t seem to have a magical bone in his body!”

“Could it be your brother? I know he doesn’t practice magic, but you have the same father… Any chance it could be latent in him and h e doesn’t know?”

“Doubtful. Mother was the root of my power. No, my inheritance came from her alone. I am confounded, John. What do I do?”

“Warn him? Say something?”

“That would mean admitting to my brother that I am not able to see everything, that I am flawed…”

“You’re human, Sherlock. You _are_ flawed. Comes with the territory.” John thought for a moment. “So go visit him, and talk to the General? Find out why he’s here. Perhaps you’re not going at this in the right way, from the right direction. Stop trying to find out what is going to happen to your brother, and try asking why the roman army have brought another legion to Eboracum. That’s unusual in itself and I’ve been wondering if they’re ready for a scrap.”

“John, my conductor of light as always. You may have something there. Come, we are visiting my brother for a few days…”

“Tomorrow, Sherlock. It’s well on into the evening and we’ve got a ways to travel.”

**00000000**

The following day dawned bright, with blue skies and fluffy white clouds and was altogether a lovely day for late February. Mycroft breezed into his guest’s room and suggested they go for a walk.

“A walk? Where?”

“We can take a turn through the garden? The air is quite unseasonably warm and you should have fresh air. We can take it slowly, and there are plenty of seats, but you should try to get some exercise, if you feel up to it.”

“Fine as far as I’m concerned, anything to get out of this bloody room…” 

The hortus was a labyrinth of pathways, leading between flowerbeds outlined in small neat box hedges. There were veritable tangles of rose bushes contrasting with the formal _topiarius_ , bushes artfully trimmed into the shapes of animals and birds. Mycroft had one in the form of a rather impressive eagle, wings spread as though soaring up from the bushy pillar on which it stood. There were more statues placed at strategic points along the way, and small shrines to Vesta, Jupiter and, Gregorius was surprised to see, Mithras. 

“You have a shrine to Mithras?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “He is the god of friendship, contract and order. He appeals to the lawyer in me.” 

“Some of the soldiers still worship him, and I don’t have the heart to forbid it. It is not encouraged in the legions now though.”

“You sound regretful of that fact.”

“It is a worthy cult to be a part of. Its edicts are friendship and order, as you say. Bravery too, which appeals to my warrior’s soul.”

“If you wish to...extend the hand of friendship, on my behalf, to those of your men whom you know hold Mithras in high esteem, to perhaps invite them here to partake in homage to the God at his shrine, then...please do. We shall arrange a small reception, perhaps?”

“Are you sure? I mean...Mithrain worship can be...a little boisterous. Usually involves a lot of wine, and leaping bulls…”

“I doubt there will be room here for bull-leaping,” Mycroft said with a wry smile, “but homage to a shrine can take a more sedate form, an offering, or incense perhaps? Something as simple as prayer. I can host a small party thereafter, if you wish to join in celebration. You may have noticed, I have enough room to accommodate at least thirty guests and still leave room for entertainment.”

“That is more than generous, Proconsul,” Gregorius replied formally. 

“Mycroft, please. I have told you before to use my name.” 

“Mycroft. You are very generous. Thank you, and I am sure some of my men would be more than happy to join me in paying homage to the God.”

“Good.” Mycroft guided him around the corner of the path and under the laburnum arch, leading him to a seat along the wall. They rested there for a while, in the sun, which actually felt warm as it reflected off the wall. 

“This has been...good, Mycroft. Thank you. Even at this time of year, your gardens are beautiful.” _Like their owner,_ he thought, but refrained from voicing. “Thank you for sharing them with me.”

“A pleasure,” Mycroft assured. They sat in companionable silence for a while as the shadows changed to those of afternoon. “Come, we’ve been sitting too long, and we must not risk you getting cold. It will soon be time for dinner.” Mycroft stood and extended a hand to help Gregorius to his feet. However, the General held onto his hand, exerting what strength he had to keep Mycroft there. “General? Gregorius? Is something amiss?”

“Mycroft...I…”

“Sir?” A voice called from the open dining room door, interrupting them. 

“Andus? What's afoot?" Mycroft sighed in frustration at the interruption. “What is it?”

“There’s a visitor for you, sir. Tribune Marcus and another soldier, sir.”

“Damn it all,” Gregorius muttered, the moment lost. He struggled to his feet. “Better go see what the fuss is about.”

“Ave, Legate!” The barked salutation came from a man who resembled, in Gregorius’ opinion, nothing more or less than a wild boar. He was aggressive, swarthy and solidily built, but short, bristly and brown. He marched abruptly through the door, came smartly to attention and threw up a hand in salute. Behind him, Marcus followed more sedately. 

“Primus Pilus Decius, good of you to come. What can I do for you?”

“Please accept the good wishes of the Legion, sir, and the hope that you are fully restored to health, by the grace of Jupiter and Mithras.” The man bowed. 

“Please reassure the men, Primus Decimus, that I am indeed in the land of the living. Thanks mainly to the good graces of the Proconsul and his household. Please convey my orders that the Proconsul deserves every respect from the Legio VI Victrix, and that his word is law. Is that clear?”

“Of course, Legate.”

“Have all the men been given quarters by now?”

“Yes, sir. That has been attended to. Most are still camped in their tents but they have enough fuel and furs to keep them warm.”

“Good. I shall see if more wine can be sent. Meanwhile I have a job for you, Primus.”

“Sir?”

“A list of all who still worship Mithras, if you please, with a word or two about their character. Delivered to me, as soon as possible. I will consult with you on the character of each man on the list. I want a complete list, mind. There are at least fifty that I know of…”

“May one ask why, sir? They’re not in trouble…?”

“Gods, no. We’ve been invited to pay homage to the God, Primus. By our Governor. He has a shrine in his hortus and he has suggested we might care to honour the God there. However, I am certain the garden cannot cope with even fifty men. We need to be...choice in whom we ask.” 

“Of course, sir. I shall ask the centurions to compile a list of the men in each century, sir. I should have something for you in a few days. Is that acceptable, sir?”

“That is acceptable, Primus. I know you must be busy, but the Proconsul was insistent.”

“Sir,” the man said, saluting. 

“Thank the men for their good wishes, Primus Pilus.”

“Sir,” the man said again, bowed, and turned on his heel, marching stiffly out.

“Well,” Marcus said, gustily. “That man reminds me of a bull elephant I saw in Numidia once,” he murmured thoughtfully. 

“Reminds me of a Wild boar,” Gregorius said with a grin. “Tenacious and aggressive. He’s probably the best Primus Pilus we’ve had in a while.”

“Has the Proconsul really invited people to honour Mithras here?”

“Yes, he has. There’s a shrine in the garden.”

“A dying cult, I’m afraid. Once upon a time a legion such as this would have had hundreds of followers. I’d not be sure if there were more than around seventy in total.”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

As the two visitors left, two arrived in a hurry. Sherlock swept up the steps and past his brother, closely followed by John, who apologised. 

“Apologies, Mycroft, but he insisted. Says your life is in danger…”

Mycroft turned to follow his brother, brows drawn down in a frown. “You’d best come to my rooms then. We were about to have dinner. I shall have my servants set two more places. We can talk afterwards?”

**000000000**

“So what is your concern, Sherlock?” 

“I need to speak to you in private, brother.”

“I dare say the good General won’t mind…”

“I _will._ Private, Mycroft,” he snapped. “This does not concern anyone else.” 

“My apologies, gentlemen.” Mycroft rose to his feet, and bowed slightly. “It seems my brother has urgent business…” He allowed himself to be dragged out of the room.

Gregorius turned to John with a slight frown. “What was that all about?”

“How much do you know about Druids, General?” John asked.

**00000000**

“So he’s been reading signs?”

“Foresees danger everywhere,” John admitted. 

“Not a surprise, considering the state of the Empire these days.”

“Why did you bring the Victrix?”

“Pardon?”

“The Victrix, why bring them up here? The IXth is established, and there’s little room for more. There’s no conflict worth putting down up here, we’ve been peaceful for years. Even the Parisi are content these days. The VIth isn’t needed. So...either there’s something going on that I don’t know about, which would be really strange, considering my network...or you’re not staying. Rome is in a mess, it’s common knowledge, so either you’re retreating to the furthest corner well away from the problems until they blow over, or you’ve come to do something else...” 

Gregorius fixed this clever man with a glare. John was ex- of the auxiliaries himself, having served for quite a while. He might be damaged but he wasn’t stupid, and he understood the army. However, he was close to Mycroft…

“There’s trouble alright,” Gregorius admitted softly. “I was sent for a reason, sure enough. I can’t say more, but you will have to trust me when I say, harming Mycroft is the last thing I want.”

“Don’t tell me more here,” John said firmly. “I’ll call tomorrow. Preferably without Sherlock in tow. We can take a walk perhaps, exercise your leg. I know a place we can’t be overheard.” 

**00000000**

“You cannot be serious, Sherlock. What on earth…?”

“Believe me, Mycroft, I have tried everything, _everything_! Yet nothing reveals itself to me.”

“Perhaps nothing is there to be revealed?”

“Do not speak of that which you do not understand. I am allowed to see _only so far,_ Mycroft, only so far and no further. That is disturbing. I have never, never been so blind! I am _not_ blind. I have my senses, my intellect, and my other methods. If they fail, I can do nothing…”

“Brother, please…”

“I have been allowed to see that you are in danger, and it is to do with that man, Mycroft, that... _viper_ in your nest. I have not been given the whole outcome, the way through, the actions to take to protect you. It is not acceptable, brother. Not in the least…”

“Perhaps you are not meant to see, have you considered that? Leave all else to the gods, Sherlock.”

“Pft,” Sherlock said dismissively. “I have never not been allowed to see. What concerns you concerns me, and we are family. Blood is thick, and this man is coming between that. I cannot see him, Mycroft. I draw a blank.” 

“Stay here for a few days, brother. Reassure yourself he means no harm.” Sherlock leaned in toward his brother, pale eyes intense and fearful. When he spoke it was with emotion trembling within the words.

“He might not mean harm, brother, but he _is_ harm, simply by drawing breath…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hortus is a garden. An oleraor is a vegetable plot within the hortus.  
> Phalerae were bronze, silver or gold discs awarded for military actions, like medals. Armillae are arm rings similarly awarded.  
> The oath a Roman soldier takes is the Sacramentum Militare, the soldiers swear that they shall faithfully execute all that the Emperor commands, that they shall never desert the service, and that they shall not seek to avoid death for the Roman republic.  
> As I have said, this is not Roman History 101. A fortress was big but usually not big enough for two legions. Some of the soldiers would have to stay camped in tents. The 9th had also actually vanished off the records by this time, see notes at the beginning, but for the purposes of this tale, they are both at York. This is an AU after all.


	4. In Hoc Ludo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Gregorius discuss things, and Sherlock finds clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always I hope this hangs together. A little later than planned but real life happens...

“I think that concludes the business for the day, General,” Marcus said, satisfied. “If I may say, you look much better today.” 

“Probably because I feel much better. Proper rest, good food, exercise; all things that can return a man to health.” Gregorius smiled. “The Proconsul is taking very good care of me.” Marcus returned the smile, but Caius’ gaze flicked away, his face a blank mask. Gregorius wondered if he was jealous. After all, the general got to enjoy the luxury of the Proconsul’s villa while the Tribunes had to stay in barracks. Gregorius frowned a little. Caius was being far too humourless. He wondered again what was eating him. Couldn’t wait to leave, either, if his figetting was anything to go by. “Have you somewhere to be, Caius?” Gregorius asked gently.

“What? No, sir...I...I was merely discomfited by my seat. I apologise if I appear...restless.”

“No offence taken, I just wondered what was amiss with you, that’s all. Anybody would think you couldn’t wait to be gone… Unless you’ve got a bit on the side waiting for you?” He chuckled lasciviously. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of my Tribunes got himself a girl...or a boy, for that matter.” Caius did not laugh it off though. 

“No, General, I do not have anyone _waiting for me,”_ he said, uncomfortably. “I admit, however, my mind is distracted. I received a letter from my uncle today…” 

“Oh? Not bad news?”

“No, no. Not at all. Merely news of my family.”

When he said no more, Gregorius sighed. “Well, as long as it doesn’t detract from your work…whatever it is.”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Marcus said, firmly. “Come, Caius, the General needs his rest.”

“I shall see you on the morrow, Marcus? General Sholto returns, does he not?”

“Yes, he does.” The general of the IXth legion had been away visiting Isurium, accompanied by one of the Hispana’s cohorts. He had been gone since shortly after the Victrix’ arrival, visiting the fort there. Since his recovery, Gregorius had not met the man. 

“The Proconsul is holding a reception tomorrow night. I expect my tribunes to be in attendance.”

“Yes, sir. You shall see us all there.” Marcus saluted, belatedly followed by Caius. “Good day, General.” Marcus exited. Caius, an unreadable expression on the boy’s face, followed after him. Gregorius distinctly heard Marcus say “What in Jupiter’s name is wrong with you?” on their way out, but they were moving too quickly out of earshot to hear Caius’ reply. Gregorius was left to wonder what was going on with the youngest of his tribunes. 

**00000000000**

“John?” Sherlock swept through his brother’s villa with imperious haste, scattering what few servants were about. He had urgent business to discuss and there was no sign of the one person he knew would keep him straight. His thoughts went back to the previous night, lying in bed with John, in the guest quarters of his brother’s house. He had woken suddenly in the darkest hour, cold and shivering, despite the furs and the blankets, and John’s warmth beside him. The dream had been clear, the colours bright. For the first time since all this sorry mess began, Sherlock’s vision was not clouded. John had roused at Sherlock’s movements in the night, wrapped himself around the lanky length of his friend and muttered something soothing, and Sherlock had allowed the man’s warmth to lull him to sleep again, his mind startlingly clear as a mountain stream. 

“John! Where are you?” _This is impossible_. After so long blundering about in the dark, Sherlock had answers and nobody to discuss them with. He had awoken to an empty bed, and although he felt more rested than he had in weeks, frustratingly he was having to cope with the fact that his previous conclusions were utterly awry and now John was not there to offer his thoughts on it all.

“John, for the Gods’ sakes, where are you?” Sherlock called, glancing into rooms in the hope of locating his mate. 

“If you are looking for your blond companion,” Andus said helpfully, his arms laden with a tray, “I saw him heading down the path to the hortus…”

“What on earth...why, John?” Sherlock murmured to himself. “Thanks be to you,” he muttered, belatedly. John always told him he should be more grateful to people. He paused, giving the man a cursory glance. “You’re the General’s slave, aren’t you?”

“Y.y.yes, I am.” The man appeared nervous around him. 

“Hmm, so, you rode from Londinium with him?” 

“Yes, sir. Well, no, sir, I mean...I don’t ride. I march, with the others...I’m not allowed to ride.”

“Must rankle, no? I mean, you were not always a slave, were you?”

“No, sir…” Andus replied warily.

“By your features you are Gaulish, yes? North of the Empire?”

“Yes, sir…” 

“A jeweller by trade, were you not?” He watched the man’s eyes widen.

“H.h.how did you...how?”

“Because you have dexterous fingers, and the scars on your hands are consistent with someone using hot metal and delicate but sharp tools. Your skills are useful when it comes to repairing your master’s clothing, I’ll bet. You know how to keep his armour polished, and you work diligently and well. I suspect you’ve been his slave for...oh, at least five years?” 

“Magic…”

“Deduction, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand…” Sherlock left the man standing in the corridor and breezed around it, almost knocking into two soldiers who were obviously leaving, heading to the front door. Tribunes, to go by their robes and the purple band on their garments. One had a wider band than the other, indicating his senior rank. Sherlock stood away and inclined his head but apart from a single cursory glance from the senior of the two, they virtually ignored him. The senior one was clearly annoyed with his subordinate. His stiff manner and glower told Sherlock that. He reached to grab the subordinate’s arm, dragging him to a stop before they got to the door. 

“Caius, stop!” he ordered. The one called Caius pulled his arm away from the speaker’s grasp, clearly irritated. 

“What, Marcus? Now what have I done?”

“Whatever your uncle told you, I hope it was worth it,” Marcus said sternly, as if talking to a child, “because it is clearly interfering with your thoughts. The General noticed you were distracted, and if you don’t put whatever it is aside, you’ll end up ignoring orders, or worse, getting them wrong, and then you’ll be sent home to Rome with your tail between your legs. You can't rely on your youth to excuse your behaviour...” 

Caius pushed himself away from the wall and almost into Marcus’ face. “The General won’t dismiss me, Marcus. Not as long as Flavius is Governor General of Alba, so you know what you can do with your superior attitude?” His voice was lowered but not low enough that Sherlock couldn’t hear it quite clearly. “You can shove it up your arse. My uncle has given me a task of some import, and if I complete it for him, then I will be rewarded. I do not give a fig for your opinion…”

Marcus pushed the other man away angrily. “You’ll give more than a fig if I tell the General what you just said.…”

“It hardly matters. He won’t be in power much longer…” 

“What makes you say that?” but the two men were gone through the door before Sherlock could hear the answer. He was torn between following them because he wanted to hear more, and finding John, whom he did not like to be without. His own situation was too urgent to wait. However, not so urgent that he couldn’t ask a few questions of his own. 

“Who were they?” he asked, realising that Andus had caught up with him and was standing patiently behind him, waiting for him to move. 

“Tribunes Marcus and Caius, of the Legio VIth Victrix. They are two of my Lord’s officers.”

“What do you know of them, Andus?” 

“Not much, sir...I mean, they keep themselves to themselves.”

“But what manner of men are they?”

“Caius...well...look, it isn’t my place to say, sir.” He stopped talking as a young woman passed by them, giving Andus a curious look as she passed. Dusky skin was offset by dark curly hair, dark sultry eyes and a curving figure beneath her simple robe. Andus paid her just a little bit too much attention.

“Good day to you, Sally,” Sherlock murmured. The dark gaze turned on him, non too friendly.

“Give you good day, sir,” she said sullenly and hurried on by. “ _Freak,”_ she murmured under her breath. Sherlock ignored it as if he was familiar with her opinion.

“So, Andus, unless you want me to reveal your... _dalliance_ to your master and her owner, you’ll tell me what you know.” Sherlock was staring at him archly. “Without permission from either of them, a liaison like that could warrant severe punishment… for _both_ of you.” As Andus watched, the druid sniffed the air. “Oh, come now,” he said. “You smell of frankincense, Andus.”

“So? Nothing unusual in that.”

“So does Sally,” Sherlock pointed out. “Andus, you lower the intelligence of the whole fortress. My brother does not burn frankincense because he says it reminds him of the Christ worshippers too much. However, Sally uses it to perfume her damp hair… I could add more…”

“If you’re so clever, how do you know I don’t use it?” Andus said, a note of defiance creeping into his tone.

“Because my brother won’t have it in the house. He doesn’t object to his slaves using it at the bath house, which is where Sally goes. He can hardly prevent it, all the women use it these days. However, it isn’t something the men do, so...need I go on?”

Andus sighed. “No, no, I...understand...I…”

“So what do you know?”

**00000000000**

The moment the two Tribunes had left, John came into Gregorius’ room via the garden, through the open door. “They gone?”

“Yes, they have, finally,” Gregorius said. “Welcome, John.”

“I thought they were never going to leave,” John said with a chuckle. “I came to make good on my promise. I know somewhere we can talk in private, and I managed to lose Sherlock for a while. You up for a walk?”

“Yes, I think so.” 

“We’d best leave by the back way. I’m not sure what Mycroft would say if he saw us together.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“Sometimes it pays to leave him to his own devices. He’s got a fine brain but he doesn’t curb his tongue when dealing with people.”

**0000000000**

“The tribunes, they treat me well enough,” Andus said. “There’s no abuse anyway. The General is always generous too, but...Caius, the one with the pale hair, he treats me mostly with indifference. If I get anything for the General, he never fails to thank me. Caius never would. He acts like I’m not there. I’ve seen such behaviour before in slave owners. I’d wager he’s grown up with slaves in the house.”

“That’s not a surprise. Most tribunes are from the upper classes, aren’t they?”

“But that’s not all. He’s a sly one, is Caius. Primus Pilus shouts a lot, but he’s not malicious. The Camp Prefect, he’s alright too. Gregorius makes sure nobody breaks the rules. Caius...he flouts them. I’ve seen him get men into trouble if it takes the guilt from him. He’s not a pleasant person. I keep my distance from that one.”

“He lies?”

“Lies, cheats, even steals things, but he’s clever. He never takes from senior ranks. He never lies to his superiors. The problem there, sir, is that you can ignore a slave, but they still hear, and they still remember. Usually there’s nothing a slave can do with the information they hear, but sometimes…” 

“Sometimes, like now, you get to share that information,” Sherlock said with a smile. “So…any more?”

“There’s one thing…”

“Which is…?” Sherlock was getting impatient.

“I saw him talking to someone when we were in Londinium. I didn’t realise who it was at first, I mean, I am only a slave. People like the man Caius was talking to, well, we don’t move in the same circles, if you get my drift. When I got back to barracks, the tribunes were organising the Legion to leave. We’d been ordered north, and we had to leave the following day. When we left on the morrow, he was there. The man Caius had been talking to was there to see us off.”

“For goodness’ sake, who was he?”

“Flavius Seneca, Governor General of Alba…”

**00000000000**

“Are we private enough here?” Gregorius asked, easing himself down onto the grassy bank. John nodded, but fell quiet for a time, attention elsewhere. Gregorius glanced at him but the man’s focus was on their surroundings. The general realised that the healer was listening, and looking, assessing the environment for potential threats without immediately appearing to do so. Gregorius fell silent, staring out across the river in quiet contemplation, giving the man time to satisfy himself that they were not being spied upon. It had felt like they were sneaking away but John had lead him through a rear door, turning left toward the Via Decumana behind the Forum building. The road was lined with shops, and screened them from view.

They had taken an easy path, wandering down to the river as though they had nowhere else to be. The soldiers on the gate recognised the general and allowed him through without comment. There was a stand of yew trees flanking a beaten path along the riverbank and John directed them along it, finally coming to a halt where the ground rose above the path. Drovers used this path to bring animals to market from the outlying farms to the east of the city. It was quiet. Not even a barge was passing along the sluggish iron-grey water. The day was another bright one, although the wind was chill. The trees screened them from the strongest gusts, although the wind was whipping the surface of the river. 

“You’re doing better on that leg now,” John commented, breaking the silence that had fallen and startling Gregorius out of his contemplations. Some sheep grazing nearby glanced up on hearing a new voice, but they lapsed into indifference and went back to munching grass very quickly. 

“Much better, thank you,” Gregorius answered. “I can pretty much move about without my crutches, but...maybe I’ll keep them a while longer.”

“Oh? Why?”

“These are dangerous times, John. If an adversary chooses to underestimate my abilities, then who am I to disavow him of such a notion?”

“True enough. So…yesterday, you were going to tell me why you were here.”

“Yes. I was.”

John nodded and stared across the river in silence for a while. “Why?” he said, bluntly. “I mean, why tell me, why trust me?”

“You seem like a man of honour, and you support the Proconsul. Look, John, you are not a man of Rome, of the Empire, and yes, I know you served, but you were an auxiliary. That isn’t the same. Soldier, yes, but completely allied to Rome? I think not.”

“You’re questioning my loyalty?” John narrowed his eyes, bristling at the suspected insult. 

“Loyalty, no, not at all. You are capable of great loyalty, I suspect. No, I am questioning your loyalty _to Rome_ , John, not your capacity to _be loyal_.” He watched as the man squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out, belligerence just below the surface. Dark blue eyes met brown ones and the two men traded a staring match for a few moments. Then John nodded once, decisively, and looked away again, across the river. He sighed, still frowning, then turned to glare at the general again.

“While I served, I _was_ loyal to Rome,” he insisted. “Every day, with every breath I took, every action I made, every order I obeyed. I never once disobeyed a direct order, I never once betrayed that trust. Never. Do you understand that? Never.”

“Understood, John,” Gregorius replied, because the man required the acknowledgement. “I was not suggesting you were capable of betrayal, merely that your heart is Brigantian, not Roman.”

“On that, you are correct,” John agreed. “I was born Brigantian, and I have never forgotten that, but while I was in the army, I was a soldier and I was there to fight, to take orders, to go into battle, moreover to fight on the side of Rome.” 

“And now?” Gregorius asked.

“Now...I am Brigantian.”

“Loyal to this little corner of Albion?”

“This _little corner,_ as you put it, is the largest territory in the country, and we are the largest tribe. That is no small honour.”

Gregorius smiled. “You and Sherlock, you’re both loyal Brigantians?”

“Of course, well...He might be half-Roman, but the other half is very definitely not. He is a man of the Goddess, Bride.” He pronounced it ‘Bree-duh’.

“Breeder?”

John laughed. “Call her that and you might get more than you bargained for. Bride,” he said, giving the pronunciation of the word more finesse. “Bridget, Brigantia, all one. She is our Goddess, after whom we named the Tribe. In Hibernia, they call her Bridget, and she is the only Goddess to have been deified by the Christ worshippers. To them, she is a saint. To us, she is mother, daughter, sister, lover. Her festival is at this time of year, when the world is waking up again after winter. Imbolc, we call it.” 

“Imbolc.” Gregorius rolled the unfamiliar word around his mouth, testing it. “You are not loyal to Rome, are you, John?” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to trip you up. If anything, I am relieved.”

“Relieved? I would have thought you of all people would trust a man loyal to Rome before one who wasn’t…”

“Rome is crumbling, John. The Emperor is mad; paranoid, volatile, mercurial. He changes his mind on a whim, murders innocent people for supposed crimes against him or the Empire. He has a pet General, Sebastianus…”

“Sebastianus Tigris? I knew him when I served. He’s a bastard. Very clever tactician, but a mean bugger. He’s in Moriarty’s bed, that one.”

“That was rumour, John, nothing more.”

“You’re joking, right? It was common knowledge in the ranks. Sebastianus used to boast about it to his tribunes. We took it in turns to serve in the General’s tent; he entertained his officers on a regular basis. Couldn’t help but overhear the conversation.”

“Well, lover or not, Sebastianus is a devious son of a bitch. I wouldn’t want him for my enemy.” Gregorius sighed heavily. “You wanted to know why I was here.”

“I didn’t expect you to tell me so readily.”

“It’s because you are who you are that I feel you deserve to know. You’re Sherlock’s lover? You’re Mycroft’s...bodyguard, he called you.” John laughed.

“Not sure I’m exactly his bodyguard, but the sentiment is appreciated, and yes, Sherlock and I are...together. Whatever that means. It’s not...conventional.” 

Gregorius smiled. “There is nothing conventional about that man. If indeed he is a man.”

“Oh, he’s a man alright, with human foibles and weaknesses, but he just hates anyone to know. For all anyone knows he could be part Fae.”

“Fae?”

“Fairie? Forest sprites, I suppose you could call them. Secretive, not always beneficial. Definitely magical. Some folk said his mother had fae blood. Those eyes are definitely not all human.”

“I know what you mean.” Gregorius shuddered, not altogether comfortable with the notion, but ready to believe it. There was definitely something other-worldy about the man. 

“Have you told Mycroft?” John asked. 

“Mycroft knows. He deduced it the first time we met. He understands.”

“Understands what?”

“The political situation, John. Mycroft was a senator, a lawyer. If anyone can understand what’s happening back home, he can. For whatever reason he came here, he knows Rome is crumbling. Moriarty blames the Proconsuls, sees enemies everywhere, executes those he thinks are plotting against him. He’s indiscriminate, John. The armies are breaking away, and Sebastianus holds the strongest. My orders come directly from the Senate via the Governor of Alba, Flavius Seneca. I am to lead the Victrix to Eboracum, join with the Hispana, and return to Rome, forthwith, to bolster the armies against Sebastianus. If the Proconsul objects, then I have orders to...remove him, permanently.”

“Goddess…” John murmured. “That’s…” Further comment failed him. 

“Not what I want to do, I can assure you. The Proconsuls are not the problem, and withdrawing now is inadvisable considering the threat from other invaders. If we leave, we may regain Rome but we will lose Albion, it’s as simple as that.”

“If you don’t...Moriarty wins?”

“Not as simple as that,” Gregorius said. “Moriarty has his supporters. It would fragment Rome completely were they to remove him without a successor and they don't have one that is supported by the remaining legions. The legions hold sway, John. Whoever the Emperor is, if he isn’t supported by the legions, he may as well kiss the Eagle goodbye.”

“What if you don’t go? What then?”

“I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t, John. I knew that much before I set off. Flavius told me it was for the good of Rome, but I am committing treason by doing this. I am breaking my oath to the Emperor, my Sacramentum Militare. I am returning with the legions not to support the Emperor, but to remove him. I agreed to do the Senate’s bidding on this, because I believe the Emperor will bring Rome destruction, not Glory.” Gregorius stared out across the water, quiet after his admission. John kept silent as well, in deference to the gravity of the situation. “So, you were telling me about Sherlock’s attempts to tell the future.”

“Sherlock has been scrying, or rather _trying_ to scry,” John explained eventually. “He believes that something, or someone, is blocking him from seeing the whole story. He doesn’t know who, or what, but he cannot see ahead as far as he usually can, and believe me, he is good at what he does. The stones, the birds, they really do speak to him, in patterns and movements, not words, but nevertheless, what he sees is true.”

“But not at the moment, hm?”

“Apparently not. Well, what he sees is true, it’s just...he can’t see enough.”

“Has he...I dunno, tried to find out who is doing this to him?”

“He’s tried a lot of things, most of which I don’t understand,” John admitted, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “What he has done, well, it’s given him a bit of insight. Not enough though. At least, not enough in his opinion.”

“Isn’t he walking a fine line here, practicing druidry so openly? He makes no secret of his existence, does he?”

“That’s partly to do with Mycroft. Nobody wants to upset the Proconsul by upsetting his little brother, but Sherlock doesn’t do himself any favours sometimes. People are wary of him, mostly, but he’s scarily accurate in his divinations. Sholto tolerates him, makes sure none of the soldiers mistreat him. I think he does it because Sherlock has helped solve some rather nasty crimes in the past.”

“Crimes? Does the Legion not keep order?”

“Yes of course, it tries to, but the soldiers cannot be everywhere at once. This is a big place, and we have a lot of people here, from many different cultures and backgrounds. We might be in the north of the Empire but we’re by no means a backwater. The Hispana occasionally has to support the Legions on the Wall to the north, to keep the Picts in their place, which leaves us a little thin to patrol our own backyard. Eboracum is a cosmopolitan city, we have boats coming in bearing traders from foreign countries, but we also get the dregs, the troublemakers, the criminals. Sherlock helps keep the peace, solves the crime and delivers the perpetrators.”

“But why? I mean...you don’t actually live here…”

“Because of his brother, initially. There was a murder… must be, what, three years ago? A woman of our own tribe, and Sherlock proved that one of the craftsmen had done it. Raped her, cut her throat, and then tried to blame a Greek merchant for the crime. Sherlock cleared the merchant’s name, and we caught the man before he could do it again.” John sniffed, and shrugged. “Sherlock is...different, unique, and he’s a bastard to work with sometimes, never mind live with. For him, though, the Work is everything.”

“The Work?”

“The Work,” John echoed in emphasis. “ _His_ work. He’s a genius, but his brain isn’t like yours and mine. If he doesn’t work, if he’s not engaged on a puzzle or a crime or a ritual or…. _something_ , anything really, then his mind doesn’t allow him to rest. He gets bored, then there’s trouble. He needs diversion, distraction, the more complicated the better.” 

“Sounds like a nightmare, but tell me, John, why give me this? I mean, why are you telling me?”

“Because, something Sherlock saw… Damn it, I can’t explain it,” John burst out. “I just...I trusted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and _I don’t know why_. I have no rational explanation for it. I don’t want to trust you, or to like you, because…” John paused, cleared his throat, shrugged and said, “well, that’s another story…”

“Because of who I am, or what Sherlock has said about me?”

“Who you are. You’re Roman. More to the point, you’re a legionary soldier.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“That depends…”

“On what? On whether I fulfill my orders and kill Mycroft?” 

“I guess Sherlock would say the Fates are speaking to me. I can’t explain it. If you fucking disappoint me, I will kill you,” John threatened. “Sherlock told me he saw the east wind bringing death and dishonour and such, but he saw an eagle riding the wind. Two numbers keep coming up, six and nine. No surprise there perhaps, but he can't explain the rest." John sighed. "Believe me, he is brilliant at what he does, sincere too. If he works on a case, then he’ll solve it, come what may. He’s like a dog with a bone, worries it until it’s done with. He can see a lot more than his divination and magic allow him, but his deduction looks like magic and trickery sometimes. He notices details, puts them together, uses that to back up what his other methods tell him.”

“Sounds as though he’s very useful.”

“Which is why Sholto allows him to stay. We live in the settlement at Isurium, to the west. It’s not far away, but it’s the nearest settlement to Eboracum, as well as being the capital for our tribe. It is close to one of our sacred sites, standing stones that were placed there by our ancestors. It helps Sherlock's work to be there. Although that isn't helping right now for some reason. He's taking that hard, questioning his abilities..."

“There’s more, though, isn’t there?”

John looked uncomfortable. “He believes you have death surrounding you.”

Gregorius barked a laugh. “I’d say it doesn’t require a great deal of scrying to see that. I am a soldier, John, as were you. We probably both have death surrounding us, considering our history.”

“I don’t believe that’s what he meant. I think he believes that you bring death with you, that you will be the instrument of death, an East Wind, in his words. He fears you have your aim trained on his brother.”

“I told you, John, that isn’t true.” Gregorius looked John straight in the eye. “On my honour, as a Soldier of the Empire, I promise you that I will not harm Mycroft Holmes. It is the last thing I want...”

“How can we trust you? Why do I trust you?”

The sigh was heartfelt and deep. “I have no idea, John. I’m a general in the Emperor’s army. Perhaps I’m the last person you should trust.” Gregorius stared across the slow moving river. “What does Mycroft think? Does he believe Sherlock?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. However, Sherlock isn’t often wrong and Mycroft knows that.”

“In other words, he’ll believe Sherlock over me?”

John shrugged. “I honestly cannot say for certain. Just telling you what I know.”

“Tell me, John, can I trust you?”

“Yes, you can. If you truly mean no harm, then I’ll have your back whatever happens. If on the other hand you cause us trouble, then you can still trust me.”

“Trust you to give me grief, you mean?” 

John smiled, a radiant grin that had Gregorius understanding what Sherlock saw in the man. “You got it,” John said, good humour restored.

**0000000000**

“John!” Both men looked up as they were heading back to the city to see a dramatic figure striding toward them, black feathers fluttering on his shoulders, the body of his cloak billowing out behind him. 

“Sherlock, what are you…?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock snapped. “Where have you been, John? I have things to discuss. I was worried...”

“I’m fine, Sherlock. We’ve been sitting here talking…”

“Well, while you two have been wasting time _talking_ , I have been finding things out.”

“We have not been wasting time, Sherlock. Far from it, in fact. Gregorius and I have been discussing the situation. This is more complicated than we thought…”

“I do not disagree with you there. Your slave is a mine of useful observations, General,” Sherlock interrupted. “Perhaps you should use his talents for observation rather than make him run around after you.”

“What? What’s he been saying?”

“Among other things, when you were in Londinium, he saw your tribune, Caius, talking to someone. Apparently they were very... _familiar_ with each other, like father and son, almost.”

“Caius’ father is dead…”

“They were deep in discussion, whatever they were talking about. So how does your tribune know the Governor General of Alba, I wonder?” 

“Flavius? I have no idea,” Gregorius wondered, thinking back to this morning’s exchange. “Caius was distracted this morning. Said he’d received word from his _uncle_.”

“Uncle? Well, it isn’t a big leap to work out who his uncle is. The question is, what is his... _their_ agenda?”

“What else did Andus tell you?”

“Just that Caius is not the pleasant personality he projects to the rest of the world.”

“Caius doesn’t actually have a _pleasant_ personality. He’s a bit of a loner really, and not very social. However, I should take the word of a slave? Admittedly Andus has never given me anything but loyal service over the last five years but that doesn’t excuse him now.”

“Ah, but Andus isn’t just any slave. He’s _your_ slave.” Sherlock sighed. “Alas, you see but you do not observe. Your slave is in a much better position to find such things out than you will ever be but you’ve never used that capability. He wouldn’t have said anything, but I made a persuasive argument.”

“What did you threaten him with?”

“He and Sally…”

“Mycroft’s little Nubian?”

“Hardly _little_ , General. And yes, they seem to have formed a relationship.”

“For which they don’t have permission from either of their masters, I see where you’re going with this.”

“Precisely. Slaves have been executed for less. I rather hope you won’t do anything as drastic. It will spoil his usefulness.”

“I thought you said he was _my_ slave?” Gregorius said, dryly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take your toys away. I might ask for Mycroft’s permission on Andus’ behalf though. At least then he won’t get into trouble.”

“And I won’t have any hold over him. Very intelligent, General.”

“Rewards, Sherlock. Rewards for good behaviour, or have you never heard of incentives? The carrot before the donkey?”

“Well, considering Andus has the brains of a donkey, perhaps it will work. You think he’ll comply?”

“I don’t know. He’s not _that_ stupid, Sherlock. Maybe his freedom would be a good incentive.” 

“And then you would lose him.”

“Not necessarily. Depends on what he has to do to earn it. Look, stop putting obstacles in the way. Do you want a spy or don’t you? Loyalty can be bought, or earned, or forced, but personally, I prefer a mutually agreeable arrangement.” 

“He’s _your_ slave, General,” Sherlock drawled. “I am merely pointing out the potential drawbacks.” 

“You’re being an arse, Sherlock…” 

“Do not rile me, General,” Sherlock growled. “I make a dangerous enemy…”

“Bollocks!” Gregorius swore. “You’re only dangerous when you’re high on whatever it is you take to see those visions of yours, and then you’re only dangerous to yourself, not to other people. John is more dangerous than you. At least I believe him when he tells me he’ll kill me.”

“John has told you he’ll kill you?” Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised. He looked at John, who grinned. “You told him you’d kill him?”

“If he does anything to harm Mycroft, I will, yes.” 

“You won’t need to, John. The Gods have spoken.”

“Have they indeed?” John said. “So, this is what you wanted to discuss?” 

“Yes. Clarity, John. I have it at last. Everything is clear, and I must speak to my brother, and you. Now. In private.” 

“Can see you have no more need for me, then,” Gregorius said, pushing himself off on his crutches. 

“Take it easy there,” John said, reaching a steadying hand to clasp Gregorius’ elbow. “No need to rush off.”

“On the contrary, John. Let us see the good general back to his bed, and find my brother,” Sherlock suggested. John cast him a suspicious look and frowned.

“Being charitable, Sherlock? Not like you at all.”

“Are you not always telling me that I should be more grateful, John?”

“Grateful, yes, but now I’m wondering what it is you’re after?”

Sherlock shrugged and smiled enigmatically. “If you want answers, John, you shall need to help me find Mycroft…”

Exasperated, John shook his head. “Come on, General, let’s get you home.” 


	5. Ventus Magis Eurus Quam Quod Venturus Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, an update. So sorry it's been so long. Writer's block, real life, and work... Hope this hangs together.
> 
> Sherlock finally has some insight, Gregorius and Sholto meet, and all is not well. An East Wind is coming.

Mycroft frowned into his wine as he listened to Sherlock regale him with the details of his latest scrying. John had seen Gregorius back to his bed with the injunction to stay there and rest. The man was still healing and John had no intention of setting that back because he allowed his patient to overdo things. He had to promise to return after Sherlock told them his findings simply to stop Gregorius from insisting he be present at their meeting. 

“On no account. You are returning to your bed, or else…”

“Or else what, John?” Gregorius had challenged. 

“Seriously? If you were in good health I might, _might_ have a problem knocking you on your arse, but right now, you’re not exactly that much of a challenge…”

“Don’t bet on that, John,” Gregorius snarled, warningly. 

“I don’t need to. Look, I’m not having a go at you, you really do need to rest.”

“I need to know what he’s found out…”

John sighed dramatically. “Alright, I will return afterward and tell you, how would that be?”

“You swear on….” He paused. _What to ask?_ “Swear on your loyalty to your tribe, you will return?”

“I swear, General, I will return to tell you.”

Gregorius huffed, annoyed. “Alright then, go.”

“Thank you, _sir,_ ” John saluted him with a grin, and Gregorius threw a pillow at his retreating back. John’s laughter reached his ears as the general lay back. Truth to tell, his leg was aching and he was tired after their walk. He was sick of being so tired. His illness had left him with no stamina. A visit to the bathhouse again wouldn’t come amiss. He needed massage, a good soak and plenty more exercise to get his muscles working properly again, to get his stamina back.

“So, brother mine, you are telling me that the fates have at last spoken to you, and given you a sign? Have you achieved some kind of clarity at last?”

“Very obviously,” Sherlock said, dryly. “When I woke this morning, I had been dreaming,” he explained. “I woke alone, John was gone, so I went looking for him. On the way I met the general’s slave in passing, and he gave me some pertinent information to the ongoing situation, but I shall come to that later. When I emerged into your garden on my search for John, I happened to glance up, and the clouds above had formed an eagle’s head, the Eagle of Rome, wings spread like the topiarius in your garden. I took that as a sign my dream had been a true one.”

“So what did you see, Sherlock?”

“I saw Eurus, our sister, with her child grown, a boy with green eyes. They were standing on the seven hills of Rome, the mad Emperor beside them, lying there beneath her foot. I do not know how, but I believe she is alive, Mycroft…”

“Eurus? How on earth…?”

“I do not know, but I believe she is not only alive but somehow embroiled in all this.”

“Impossible…”

“Not impossible, merely improbable. I have not dreamed of her since I heard of her death, so why does she visit me now? We were told she had died, Mycroft. We never saw her body. She was married off to a prince from a tribe to the south, The Corieltauvi. Her death nearly sent us to war, Mycroft…”

“I recall. You sent me word in Rome, and you told me then that her death was a natural one, in childbirth. Not the fault of her husband, beyond getting her with child, that is.”

“That is what happens when a woman and a man join, after all,” Sherlock said. “Hardly a cause to go to battle if the wife dies giving birth, it’s common enough. I managed to persuade our Chief, Beldgaros, not to commit his troops to a revenge battle. He had no cause. The husband had not mistreated her. After all, she had been married off legally, there was no irregularity. She even wanted to leave, had agreed to the match in fact. I went to Ratae Corieltauvorum, I met with their Chief and Eurus’s husband. They both told me she was dead, and the child with her. I asked some very searching questions, I went to her home, I talked to other members of the tribe. They all told me the same. The women who were with her on the night, they witnessed her death. They said they tried to save the child, but failed.”

“And this dream…”

“I saw her, and I saw her child, a boy…” Sherlock hesitated and Mycroft saw his eyes change, their focus altering. “What?”

“The child in my dream was a boy…”

“So?”

“The tribe told me she had given birth to a girl. That doesn’t make sense. Why would I dream that her child was a boy?”

“Something to ponder on later, perhaps. What of the rest of your dream, Sherlock?”

“The rest…? Yes, the rest…” Sherlock focused back to his memories. “I felt the east wind again, stronger this time, howling across the plain, bringing with it the smell of death. I saw a tiger, prowling the edge of the plain, and a magpie with purple plumage flying around the tiger’s head, calling into the wind. It held a laurel wreath in its claws.”

“Our erstwhile Emperor, I surmise?”

“Likely, yes. The purple would attest to that, as does the laurel wreath.”

“Did you see anything more?”

For a moment, Sherlock was silent, contemplative. “Across the plain lay bodies,” he said, eventually. “There were lots and lots of bodies, but the ravens were waiting silently, obeying the will of the magpie.” Sherlock’s eyes met John’s across the room. 

“Six bulls followed by nine more marched across the field to victory...I saw a broken standard, but it did not have the symbols of the VIth or the IXth upon it. The bulls trampled it down as they plodded relentlessly onward...” Sherlock’s voice faded and his eyes lost their focus.

“And what do you suppose the meaning of all this is, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, his tone snapping Sherlock out of his fugue. 

“I believe the six and nine to be the bulls of the Legions,” Sherlock said irritably. “It’s so obvious a baby could see it. Both legions bear the bull as their symbol. I believe the Tiger to be Tigris, Sebastianus Tigris. John tells me he is the Tiger of Rome, and if what he says is to be believed, then Tigris will bring the conflict to us. He won’t wait for us to come to him. A bloody conflict it will be, possibly even to decide the throne of Rome itself. I am not absolutely sure where this will take place, but I am sure that the battleground will be close, perhaps even on our doorstep…”

**0000000000**

“That’s what he saw, hm?”

“That’s what he said, yes. Word of honour, General.”

Gregorius sighed, thoughtfully. “So it remains to be proven whether their sister is still alive. It was _only_ a dream, after all.”

“It is never only a dream where Sherlock is concerned. He’s a Druid. He’s mastered all kinds of esoteric methods of divination. He’s not often wrong.”

“Has he ever been?”

“What, wrong? Occasionally, although not actually wrong, more...misdirected. Stuff comes true, just not in the way he first thinks. He’s never been outright wrong about something that I can remember.”

“Well, whether Sherlock is right or not, if I am to obey my masters, I should return to Londinium no later than the Ides of March. However, if Sholto is not agreeable, then I am not sure where my path lies…”

“We need to discuss things, that’s certain. Unless you intend to murder both of them…”

“It puts a sour taste in my mouth that I was tasked with such a thing. We should not be killing each other, certainly not if we’re on the same side. It’s madness, John.” 

“It’s not like it’s unusual…”

Gregorius huffed angrily. “I know you’re right, but it has never sat well with me.”

“And you a general?”

“General, yes, butcher, no. Never have my troops been allowed the excesses that others care to allow, I told you that. Oh, I know, I am ridiculed in Rome, even by the same senators who have asked this of me. They say I’m too soft.”

“You? Too soft?”

“Yes, well, the last person to do so ended up on his arse in the dust.”

“I can imagine.”

“They dare not say it to my face. However, my legion is successful, its troops fight well, they are loyal. My legion has the lowest record of desertion, did you know that? Those men are worth every drop of my blood, sweat, and tears that I have shed to make them what they are. I am not ashamed.”

“And yet you are breaking your oath as a soldier…”

“Because I cannot reconcile following an Emperor who is mad, who will bring down everything I have worked to build. He’s a test, John, sent by the Gods to see if we are still loyal. Christianity is creeping through the ranks, we are forgetting who we are…”

“This really means something to you, doesn’t it?”

Gregorius lay back on his cushions, exhausted. “Yes, John, it does. I haven’t long for this command. This was to be my last mission as Legate. I’ve served my time in the legions, I wanted to retire to a villa somewhere warm, in peace. I probably won’t see that, but if I am to die in command, then I bloody well won’t die with my tail between my legs and Dis* take the bastard who tries to make me!”

**000000000000**

“Welcome, Legate,” Mycroft stood back and allowed Lucius Vitellius Sholto, Legate of the IXth Legion, to enter the room. “Glad to have you returned to us.”

“Glad to be back, but this wasn’t necessary, Mycroft,” Sholto protested gently as he limped past and accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant girl. 

“It was, believe me.” Mycroft turned to walk with Sholto into the room, leaning in a little to murmur discreetly, “This is very necessary, I assure you. I know you don’t necessarily follow the fashions of Rome but we are not uncivilised enough to abandon them completely. However, I will explain more in the fullness of time.” 

Sholto nodded. “Very well. I’ll take your word on it. I gather the Legate of the VIth Victrix is here.”

“Gregorius Octavian Silvanus, yes. Over there, talking to John. I suggest you two get to know each other. There is a situation developing here. We need to discuss matters between ourselves, but I strongly suggest including my brother, the general, and John. The Senate are forcing our hand and plans need to be made. However, tonight is a pleasant chance to enjoy ourselves and be introduced. Beyond that...well, perhaps discussion of anything sensitive should wait until the morrow?”

“A wise idea. I shall bow to your judgement and spend my evening in a productive fashion, familiarising myself with the enemy…” Sholto grinned. 

“I think you will find _he_ is not your enemy,” Mycroft murmured.

Sholto leaned in conspiratorially. “Am I to gather by your inference that there may be others here who are?” Mycroft said nothing, but arched an eloquent eyebrow. “Then I’ll reserve judgement,” Sholto murmured, “but you know I usually do that anyway.”

“And I do not condemn you for that,” Mycroft said sincerely. 

**00000000**

The reception wasn't a big affair, but Mycroft had invited the two generals, plus their Tribunes from both legions. Anthea was also in attendance, and Mycroft did not correct the assumption most people made, that she was his wife. Neither did she. It was a mutually agreeable arrangement, especially for formal functions. 

Also in attendance was a tribal delegation from Isurium, conveniently including both John and Sherlock. The chief, Beldgaros, his wife, Nennia, and their eldest daughter, thirteen year old Meriana, were also there, although “please call me Merry” spent the evening making eyes at both Sholto and Gregorius. The generals were charm personified, which sparked irritated jealousy on Mycroft's part. He caught himself glaring and reined in his emotions. It would not do to cause a scene. The girl was young, and most likely infatuated with the two handsome commanders. Despite Sholto’s injuries he was still a striking figure, and Meriana's parents were no doubt looking for a suitable match for her. She was of an age to pair her off to someone.

**000000000**

“Now, gentlemen,” Gregorius had ordered earlier that evening, mild steel in his voice as he gathered his tribunes in the atrium of the Proconsul’s villa, “let's not turn this evening into a pissing contest, shall we? I know the Ninth is inferior to us in every way…” he paused at the laughter his comment evoked, “but let's not mock the afflicted.” More laughter followed. “Best behaviour please. This is a diplomatic mission, but you are allowed to enjoy our Proconsul's hospitality. Just try not to get so plastered that you can't even hold onto the floor. Anyone too pissed to find his way back to barracks tonight will be cleaning the latrines for a month. Assuming the guard detail can find you in the morning, that is. Now, go greet your host properly.” 

**000000000**

Everyone had to admit the Proconsul had outdone himself. The food on offer was well-presented, plentiful, and exotic. Seemingly no expense had been spared. There were baskets of white bread loaves and sweet wine cakes, pastry tarts made with preserved fruits that melted in the mouth. Silver platters of fresh oysters jostled for position with plates of stuffed dormice and bowls of delicately coloured milk puddings. Platters of fried milk-fed snails, and fresh soft cheeses sat beside boards that displayed various cooked fish, all elaborately decorated with fresh leaves and cut vegetables. Small jugs of garum and liquamen were provided for seasoning. Various sweet wines were on offer, ale being looked down on by folk of Mycroft’s rank. Ale was an everyday drink for the plebs, the workers, the lower classes. Only the finest imported wines for the Proconsul of Eboracum.

Gregorius took a welcome seat on one of the couches laid out for the diners. He leaned back, lifting his feet off the floor, reclining against the cushions. Servants moved to offer him food, and he picked a few choice morsels while observing the people arriving. He was decked in his best clothing, Andus having worked hard to make sure things were clean and well kept. His slave had dressed him carefully for the occasion, wrapping and draping his toga around him, making sure its folds fell correctly. It would not do for the thing to fall off his shoulder or drag on the floor. Beneath it, his tunic was soft white wool, with two vertical bands of reddish-purple embroidered silk, the _clavi_ , running over the shoulders and down to the hem. He was wearing no less than three pairs of _armillae_ , the gold and silver bracelets glinting in the candlelight. Gregorius knew he was showing off, but he also knew the value of first impressions. He wanted Sholto to be impressed. Were he in Rome it would be expected, and folk would gossip were he not properly attired. 

First impressions of Sholto, when Gregorius finally spotted the man chatting with Mycroft, were of a man scarred by war, wary of new people, but familiar enough with the venue and his host to be somewhat relaxed. He did not place his back to the wall, though, nor stare at everyone with suspicion. He was guarded, and careful, and when he locked eyes with Gregorius, he came straight over with no preamble.

“Sir,” he said, formally. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Gregorius was about to lever himself to his feet, but Sholto discouraged him with a hand to his shoulder. “Please, don’t exert yourself. I’ve been informed of your injuries. Although you do look better than I expected, I have to say.”

Gregorius relaxed back and nodded. “Thank you,” he said and stuck out his hand. Sholto grasped the offered hand and shook it. He seated himself on another couch nearby and surveyed the guests. 

“Apologies that I wasn’t here to greet you. I had a small matter to deal with in Isurium.”

“I heard, yes. Meanwhile, I spent a week on my back at the Proconsul’s mercy…” 

Sholto laughed. “There are worse fates,” he said. “Mycroft is a generous man. So how bad was it?”

“Bad enough. Unfortunate we’d seen action immediately prior to coming north. I had no time to adequately see to my hurts. I’m pretty much recovered now, even if I find using the crutches easier. I’ve been frequenting the bath house too. I was impressed at the talents of the people there. Those who practice massage are very good at their jobs. They’ve quite restored me to health.”

Sholto nodded. “We’re in a good position here in Eboracum. The river brings us closer to the trade routes, closer to the best the traders can procure, be it slaves, fine fabrics, pottery, weaponry. They bring it all.” 

“Not had much chance to see the vicus,” Gregorius said.

“Then first chance I get, I’ll take you to a tavern or three. There are girls like you’ve never seen.” He paused, grinning. “Boys too. They are all very... _experienced_ , if you catch my drift.”

Gregorius allowed himself to smile. “I think I wouldn’t mind a drink or two. Not so sure about the girls though. I’ve already got my eye on someone…”

“Yes? Well, I wish you luck of it.” Sholto raised his glass. “May she...or he, be not blinded to your charms.”

Gregorius grinned. “What about yourself? No little woman at home?”

“No, not yet. Although there is a fine young Brigantian lass I favour. I’ve yet to persuade her father though. Apparently he doesn’t see the advantages of her partnering with a Roman General.”

“Was that the _little matter_ you needed to deal with in Isurium, one wonders?” Greg grinned. 

Sholto fixed him with a look. “As it happens, it was fortuitous that the matter that took me there allowed me time to dally with her...not time enough to persuade her father though…”

“I wish you luck of that then.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Both men raised their glasses and drank, then Sholto leaned in a little. “The Proconsul tells me we need a meeting tomorrow,” he murmured whilst glancing about him nonchalantly, making doubly sure nobody was listening. “There seems to be a _situation_ , according to him.”

Gregorius laughed harshly. “ _Situation_ is right, but here is not the place to talk of it. I have good reason not to trust certain members of this gathering.”

“So Mycroft was right.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He intimated there may be _enemies_ present.”

“He did, hm?”

“In a roundabout way, yes,” Sholto confirmed. “How well do you know him?”

“As well as one can having spent the last few weeks in his household. I know he’s generous, capable, and something of an enigma. I came here to kill him.” Sholto raised his eyebrows. “My orders are from the senate,” Gregorius qualified. “Although I have no intention of carrying them out. However, as I said, here is really neither the time nor the place. So...how have the locals been during your tenure here?”

Sholto paused before answering, seeming to digest Gregorius’ words. “The locals,” he began thoughtfully, “have been...largely peaceful. They have stopped attacking us, and they don’t seem to attack each other over territory any more, but considering their idea of sport is to raid each other’s cattle, it’s often a hard job to stop them completely.”

“Sport?”

“Oh, yes. They sneak in, steal a few head of cattle, run off again. Then the other group retaliates, sneaks in, there’s a fight if they’re seen, and then they steal a few head back again. Nobody minds, and actually nobody gets killed as a rule. There may be a few broken heads, and it’s an odd way to train your warriors, but it works. They never take too many, they have no intent to starve each other, but it keeps them on their toes.”

“How about our relations with the other tribes?”

“We trade with them, and a lot of soldiers have married into the tribes, they have families now, some of whom retire and take up a craft in the vicus, some choose to live with the tribe. It’s a cordial arrangement. We’ve not really had any conflict for a while. Not that we’re not vigilant.” Sholto waved someone over. “Let me introduce you to my Laticlavus, Tiberticus Salvius. Salvius, this is Legate Silvanus.” The young man with straw blond hair and blue eyes bowed respectfully. He was robust of body and yet round of face, which made him look much younger than his years. 

“Twenty six, sir,” he answered when asked. 

“We had a gang of pagans tried to raid the coast last year,” Sholto explained, “but the signal stations lit their beacons and the message got through. Sent a couple of cohorts to repulse the invasion. Salvius was at their head.” He chuckled. “I say invasion. More like a bunch of opportunist chancers, wouldn’t you agree, Salvius?”

“I would, sir. They stood no chance. We felt sure they would have gone by the time we turned up but no, they were camped out, planning to move further inland.”

“So what happened?” Gregorius was curious. 

“What do you think, General?” Sholto asked.

“Wiped them out?”

“Almost all of them, all apart from two,” Salvius said, proudly. “Don’t misunderstand, sir, they attacked us first. We thought there was an outside chance they might be traders who hadn’t been here before, but no. Looked like a scouting mission. So we sent the survivors back with their ship. Minus its sail, they had to row.”

“Well, you have to send a message, don’t you?” Sholto said. “Bloody invaders, we’ve had more trouble from them than from our own neighbours.”

“You think they got home to give the message?” Gregorius asked.

“Either they did or they didn’t. No skin off my nose either way. I’m a soldier. We do what needs to be done. Isn’t that so, Sal?” 

Salvius nodded sagely. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, pleasure to meet you, Salvius,” Gregorius said, warmly. “If you ever get tired of the IXth, you can always join us you know. We need good officers.” 

“You can stop that right now,” Sholto said, grinning widely. “I can see I need to keep an eye on you, thieving bastard that you are. You’ll have my best officers. On you get, Sal. Enjoy the evening.” The man bowed and backed away. “A good man, that one. Been with me for a decade…”

“He doesn’t look old enough.”

“Sixteen when he joined. Lied about his age but he’s always been tall. Looks much younger though. Had to get his father to write an affidavit that he was actually old enough.”

“And the man did?”

“Yes, he did. Apparently considered all his sons should join as soon as they could. Meant the family wasn’t feeding them.”

“A bit mercenary.”

“Practical,” Sholto said. 

“Can I ask a question?”

“By all means, ask. Whether you get an answer though…” Sholto grinned.

“Who do you do it for?” For a moment, Sholto regarded him thoughtfully. 

“Gentlemen, how pleasured I am to make thy acquaintance!” Both men startled, looking up to see the large and ebullient figure of the local chieftain, swaying precariously and in danger of spilling his drink. The intrusion meant that the answer to his question never came.

0000000000

Caius was bored. He had been told this was compulsory to attend, and indeed he was interested to see what this Sholto person was made of. Besides, he was avoiding Marcus, although the man seemed to be avoiding him too. Caius’ uncle had been less than complimentary concerning Sholto. The man had once been in a legion that had lost its standard and been disbanded. True, he had only been young at the time, not even an officer, but mud sticks. Caius was of the opinion that such a man did not deserve to rise to the position of Legate of a legion, not to mention a notorious one like the IXth. They were known to be unconventional, shunning the new Christianity for the old ways, despite the Emperor’s encouragement that all the soldiers should embrace the new religion. It rankled with Caius that anyone should disobey the Emperor like that, even a mad one. He scanned the crowd, looking for someone. His uncle had said there was a contact in the IXth that would be useful to meet, to cultivate. He spotted a blond head bobbing above the crowd and made his way over. 

Salvius watched the young narrow-band tribune make his way over, noting the sharp features and ambitious gaze. _Trouble, this one,_ he thought. Better watch his step. Although it might be fun to play...

“Tiberticus Salvius. Have a dormouse,” he said, offering a platter. Caius regarded the things suspiciously and took one to be polite. 

“Caius Augustus, Tribunus Angusticlavii of the Legio VIth Victrix.”

“Formal, aren’t we?” Salvius grinned. “Call me Sal. If you are who I think you are, then we have a lot to discuss…”

The reception went off almost without incident, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves, a small few getting drunk on the imported wines, but thankfully not many. None of the tribunes from either legion were guilty of severe drunkenness, but the worst by far was Beldgaros, the Brigantian chief. John and Nennia managed to get him to a guest room where Nennia stayed with her rather ebullient husband. Moments later, John delivered Meriana to her mother’s door. The woman pulled her protesting daughter inside before any of the male guests could take advantage of her youth and beauty. 

Sholto and Gregorius accepted Mycroft’s invitation to stay, and John and Sherlock already had rooms. The two generals saw their officers off home, exhorting them to get back to barracks and not disgrace themselves. Laughter greeted their words. Sholto glanced at Gregorius and smiled. “You see how the youth disrespects the elder, Gregorius? And I being a father to them. Look at the thanks I get.” 

“As am I, Sholto. I feel your pain.”

“Goodnight, Tata**,” Marcus called, grinning.

“Go lay your head, Father,” called Nonus. “Good night, and may Minerva hold you in her arms…”

“Get along with you, you pack of whelps,” Gregorius said, exasperated. The two men watched their officers reel down the street, mostly supporting each other, laughing and joking. 

Gregorius turned to find Sholto leaning against the door frame, a broad smile in place. “Your men love you at any rate,” he said, nodding to the retreating backs.

“Not all of them,” Gregorius replied. 

“Oh?”

“Time and place,” Gregorius said softly and turned to go inside. 

Neither man noticed that not all their tribunes were present. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dis is the Roman God of Death  
> **Roman children called their father ‘Tata’ apparently.


	6. Et Densissimus Insidias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, then men discuss, and betrayal is afoot...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as the plot thickens, I think I've lost the plot completely...I think this hangs together. Anomalies will of course be gratefully noted, and corrected. 
> 
> Apologies for the length of time it's taken to update. Plot bunnies reared their heads on the shooting range and I wasn't quick enough to take them down...

Gregorius woke early, despite drinking a little too much of the Proconsul’s wine the night before. Bright sunshine shone under the shutters of his room, making him wince just a little in retribution. He rose a little unsteadily to his feet and tugged on his tunic and boots, shivering in the fresh morning air. He dragged a blanket around his shoulders and made his way slowly through the quiet house to the kitchens, finding Andus and the cook, Marcelus, already well on with the tasks of the day. The warmth of the kitchen was welcome, and Andus handed him a cup of warm spiced milk without a word. 

“Gods’ teeth, Andus," Gregorius growled softly. "What’s this? You’re treating me like an old man now?” 

“Not at all, sir. It’s a cold morning and I hoped you would welcome something warming,” Andus reasoned. “After the er… after last night, I wondered if you would appreciate something less intoxicating. Besides, I won’t tell if you don’t, sir.” The slave went back to his work without another word. 

Gregorius huffed, trying hard to suppress a smile. Having served him so long, Andus had achieved a level of comfortable familiarity with his master that came with long experience; an acquired understanding of Gregorius’ foibles and fancies, his affinities and aversions. However, Andus never overstepped his bounds. He knew when to tease a little, when to be respectful and obedient, when to be discreet, when to anticipate his master’s needs. He had never seemed to resent his position, despite being in Gregorius’ employ for the last decade. The man had always been reliable, although the General knew he was clever, that he could read and write, and that he was a skilled craftsman, or had been. Somehow, Andus seemed to be content where he was. He had never attempted to run, or riled him up enough to risk being sold off. 

Gregorius wandered back to his room in a thoughtful mood. He had left his crutches there, preferring to stretch himself a little, trying to encourage his muscles to work properly. He was limping, but the pain was an afterthought. As he turned the corner of the corridor on the way back to his room, lost in thought, he found Sherlock walking toward him. 

“Good morrow to you, Legate,” Sherlock said, inclining his head in a formal greeting. 

“And to you, Priest,” Gregorius replied, gruffly. “How are you this fine day?”

“In surprisingly good spirits. My brother’s parties are always uplifting.” He paused, regarding Gregorius with a narrow-eyed stare.

“What?” Gregorius said, frowning a little in reply. 

Sherlock took a breath and let it go slowly. “There are things we have urgent need to discuss,” he said enigmatically. “You may not find them pleasant.”

“Mention was made of the need to discuss matters, yes. None of this current situation is pleasant, so I doubt I shall find myself surprised.” 

“Yes, well, I think it best we talk after breakfast. Discussion of such things will not sit well on an empty stomach.”

“I’d agree with you there. Have we set a time?”

“Doubtless my brother will send word of the appointed hour.” Sherlock turned abruptly and continued on to the kitchens, setting his black robes swirling dramatically. Gregorius watched him go. In his wake, a single black feather drifted down to the tiles. Gregorius leaned down and picked it up, turning it in his fingers pensively. The oily blue sheen caught the light, capturing his attention for a moment. He wondered briefly if it meant something, and then he turned back to his room, dismissing it as a fanciful notion. _I’ll be seeing portents in the clouds next,_ he thought incredulously, lowering himself onto his bed carefully, but he kept the feather.

**00000000**

Gregorius lay quiet for a while, simply staring at the ceiling, and considered that he should probably sleep more, considering the previous evening’s goings on. Married to the fact that he was still technically convalescing, it made sense to rest, and he knew John would have his hide if he pushed things too far. Sleep would not come though, and he spent the next hour going over the implications of his actions and depressing himself still further. 

A knock on his door a little while later roused him from a restless doze and heralded Mycroft’s arrival. The Proconsul looked somewhat concerned but was otherwise his usual immaculate self. Gregorius was again struck by the man’s looks, his patrician profile and amazing blue eyes. _Another time, in a different world..._

“My apologies. I had no wish to disturb you,” Mycroft said, managing to disturb Gregorius’ thoughts quite completely. “I trust I find you well.”

“You find me alive,” Gregorius said, “although the term _well_ is debatable.” He yawned and stretched, shoulder joints cracking. “Oh, Gods,” he groaned. “Even my bones ache. I think I drank too much last night.”

Mycroft smiled. “I think you are not alone,” he said wryly, a smile tugging his mouth up at one side. Gregorius’ smiled along with him. 

“I passed Sherlock on his way to the kitchen earlier,” he said. “I gather there is to be a meeting today?”

“I thought it best, yes. Yourself, Sholto, Sherlock, John, and myself of course. Anthea will run interference for us. We need to discuss our current...pressing situation. There are things afoot that cannot come to pass, not if we wish to continue in good health and prosperity. I think Sherlock has something new he wishes to divulge to us all....”

“Beyond what he told us the other day?”

“Yes, I think so. He does not cease to learn as much as he can.”

“So, when and where?”

“Here, of course, in my house. I think perhaps within the hour, in the dining room?”

“Fine by me.” 

“Good. I shall see you soon. I shall send Rhodri for you when the time is nigh.”

**00000000**

The room was shuttered, and lit with lamps, despite the bright sun outside. It was deemed best to keep the place from prying eyes. Sun rays slanted through the cracks, dust motes glittering and dancing in the eddies of air as Mycroft’s servants and slaves moved around placing food and wine and cups and couches in position for Mycroft’s guests. While the servants prepared the room, Gregorius sent Andus with a message. Sholto wanted his trusted Primus Pilus, Antonius Lucius, to send two reliable men to the Proconsul’s villa. Ostensibly they would be there on guard duty because of the Chief’s presence, to keep folk away while they were in negotiations. They were not to be informed of the real reason. Andus had gone off at a run, bearing one of Sholto’s rings as his surety. 

“I have arranged refreshments for us,” Mycroft said when he breezed into the atrium a while later. His guests were lounging around the small pool at the room’s center, waiting to enter their meeting room. “Marcelus will bring us food when the sun reaches its zenith. In the meantime, we have sweetmeats and sweet wine to keep us sustained until then. Anthea is making sure we are not disturbed by any of the other guests.”

“Anything else we need?” John asked. “I have some of my men set up in a wider perimeter, just in case. Don’t worry, they won’t even be seen by your guards,” he reassured Sholto. 

“Then that’s all we need do,” Mycroft said. “So shall we enter?” He lead the way into the dining room. 

“So, gentlemen.” Sholto surveyed the assembled group as they sat or reclined in the dim light of the room. “It is perhaps prudent to await my guards arrival before we embark upon a discussion of anything too...sensitive? However, that shouldn’t be too long.”

“A good plan,” Mycroft agreed. “Perhaps we could discuss lesser matters first?”

“John’s people should be enough,” Sherlock argued. “I have seen how long it takes for your soldiers to mobilise….”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured mildly, “enough. Please do not be difficult.”

“Difficult? I am merely saying that we have contingency. Do we need to delay?”

Sholto frowned slightly. “My troops will be here as fast as humanly possible,” he reassured. “They do not linger.” 

“And it would be best to have them here,” Gregorius opined. “Alright having scouts out there but nobody will see them. It is sometimes best to have a visible deterrent.” Sherlock huffed but said nothing. “Here, have some wine and take a seat, lad. They’ll be here soon enough.” 

“No, thank you. I want to keep a clear head, and I would respectfully suggest you do the same.” 

Gregorius grinned. “My head will be clear enough, thank you. We might have weighty matters to attend to but an old soldier like me has learned to take his pleasures when and where he can. You never know when it’ll be your last opportunity.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to refute the ‘old’ statement but shut it again before his words might betray him. He turned away, schooling his features to bland neutrality before his expression could reveal too much…

**00000000**

Caius was crossing the square on his way into the Vicus when he spotted his general’s slave making his way quickly toward the barracks. Curious, Caius moved to follow, wondering what would bring the man out there, and in haste too? Caius knew Gregorius tended to use his slave as a messenger when he had something personal to convey. Otherwise he would use one of the new recruits. The General was staying with the Proconsul so the message must have come from him for someone in the fortress, not the other way around, but who? Caius dropped back to listen as the slave asked for the Primus Pilus, not of the VIth but of the IXth. _Why Sholto’s Primus?_ Interest peaked, Caius decided he needed to know more. 

The slave... _Andus, that was his name_...hurried toward the tower on the northern gateway. Just as he was about to enter, and Caius was wracking his brain to come up with a reason to follow, a man barged out of the door, nearly bowling the slave over. Andus recovered and bowed, and asked if he was speaking to Primus Pilus Antonius Lucius. Caius ducked into an alley between nearby buildings and leaned nonchalantly against the wall as if he had every right to be there while straining his ears to hear what was said.

“He wants what?” the gruff voice of the Primus Pilus barked. 

“Legate Sholto, sir, has requested two of your most trusted men to guard the Proconsul’s villa while they are in talks with the Tribal Chief this morning. Legate Gregorius Octavian Silvanus sent me on General Sholto’s behalf, sir. I bear his ring as proof.”

“Did he now?” the man replied. “Well, can’t keep the General waiting, can we? Return to your master, tell him I will send what he needs as soon as I return to barracks. He’ll have his guards by midmorning.”

“My thanks, sir. I shall inform him.”

“Huh. You do that.” The man marched off, cutting close to where Ciaus was standing. 

_Talks with the tribe chief, hm? Why did that sound false? Why did they require guards for such a simple matter?_ Caius was careful not to let the slave see him, in case he was recognised. Once all was clear, Caius made his way back, heading for the Proconsul’s villa before the soldiers got there. The meeting with his contact would have to wait.

**0000000000**

“So, correct me if I am wrong, but you had orders, from the Senate…” Their guards had arrived and had been dispatched to patrol the hortus and the road that encircled the property. The five men were settling down to the weighty matters of why Gregorius had been sent north.

“Supposedly,” Gregorius qualified, fixing Sholto with a look. 

“Supposedly, those orders sent you to Alba?”

“Yes. Then Flavius handed me yet another order, again supposedly from the Senate. I was to come north, collect both the legions, and return with their combined force to Londinium on the Ides, and thence, presumably, to Rome.” 

They were all sitting around a small brazier in the shuttered room, smoke curling up from the charcoal, winding its tendrils into the gloom of the ceiling. 

“The reason you were given?” Sholto asked.

“To aid the Senate in facing down Sebastianus Tigris and to back them in removing the Emperor's backside from the throne of Rome. However, word reached me before I set off from Londinium that things may not be as they seem. I am not certain where the warning came from, but it hinted there was more to this than met the eye. I don’t trust the Governor General of Alba, and I have reason to believe one or two of my men might not be on our side either.”

“That cannot be a surprise, surely?” Sholto said. “Considering we have regular desertion…”

“My legion has not suffered as much of that as others,” Gregorius snapped. “My legion is not run by fear…”

“Word is you are too soft on your men,” Sholto said bluntly. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but Gregorius was quick to reply.

“I know what they say in Rome, and frankly I don’t have any fucks left to give. My legion is successful, we have many victories, and people are jealous. We fight hard, we fight well, and our standard is testament to that, but I do not allow excesses, I do not allow my men to violate their enemies or steal from them. That is not honourable behaviour…”

“Come now, surely you yourself are not perfect, General…”

“Damn you, no, I am not, but I expect my men to lead, not follow. My men will do as they are told. They are loyal. Where other legions and legates are happy to foster fear and brutality, it is not my way.” 

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said, finally getting a word in edgewise. “Please do not let this devolve into a pissing contest. Sholto, there can be no benefit to alienating your colleague…” 

“I want to know who I we dealing with here,” Sholto said reasonably. “I have heard rumour, but we do not know each other. I am trying to get a measure of the man who has been sent to kill you…”

“And who is not about to obey those orders.” Gregorius was adamant and fierce in his rebuttal. 

“And if he does not, then he will be guilty of treason,” Sholto pointed out reasonably.

“I know the consequences…” Gregorius insisted, vehemently. 

“Gentlemen!” Myroft said again, with more force. “While this is undoubtedly a sound exercise, I must insist we get back to the reasons behind General Silvanus’ journey north, and what we can do about them. Questioning his character will not avail us anything.” 

“Look, I have nothing to hide,” Gregorius insisted. “Yes, I was tasked with removing the Proconsul, or anyone else for that matter," he growled, staring Sholto while he said it, "if they presented an obstacle to me completing my orders. No, I am not about to act upon those orders, despite the plain fact that it makes me a traitor. I will not aid and abet a worse crime to stop another…”

“And if the end justifies the means?”

“It doesn’t,” Gregorius said flatly.

“Oh, for Gods’ sakes,” Sherlock snapped. “Just stop. All you will achieve is to revolve around the issue like a Vestal Virgin dancing on a feast day. I recently learned something that I fear you should all know urgently…” Sherlock interjected, standing up and pacing around them all. “I promised not to reveal my sources, but those two tribunes of General Silvanus here,” he said, turning to Gregorius, “I overheard them as they left his room the other day and all is not well…”

“How _not well_? Which ones and on what day? I have six tribunes in total.”

Sherlock regarded him with an inscrutable stare. “I am told there is one named Caius?”

“Yes, he's my youngest Tribune…” 

“And possibly the most outspoken. I witnessed him defy what I assumed to be a senior officer.”

“Marcus? Apart from me, he’s the only one could be considered Caius’ superior. When did this happen?”

“On leaving your room a few days ago. They passed me as I was looking for John. That conversation was very...illuminating.” 

“Marcus and Caius come most regularly to see me. Marcus is my Tribunus Laticlavius, my senior Tribune. Care to share what you heard, Sherlock?” 

“The senior, your _Tribunus Laticlavius_ as you call him, berated the younger for his lack of focus, to be met with open disdain.”

“Yes, I recall, Caius was distracted. Said he had word from home. Told him not to allow his focus on the job to waver. He assured me it wouldn’t. Believe me, I have been ready to send him home since we left Gaul. I took him on as a favour to his father and so far, he has not proven to be irksome enough to give me reason to dismiss him.”

“In Caius’ opinion, the good General here apparently won’t dismiss him as long as Flavius is Governor General of Alba. Caius’ uncle has apparently given him a task which he considers important, for which he will be generously rewarded. It seems he was seen talking to Flavius on the morning of your departure for the North.”

“Is that so?” Gregorius said. “Am I to take it then that his uncle is the Governor General?”

“Apparently so. He sounded very confident about his task, whatever it might be.” 

“Well, he’s never mentioned it. Apart from the tendency to be sullen, and sometimes he can be argumentative with the other tribunes, he hasn’t done anything openly unacceptable.”

“Yet,” Sholto said, dryly. 

**00000000**

Caius toyed briefly with brazening it out and knocking at the door. However, he knew that would do him no favours. He had no reason to be there, no plausible reason for wanting to speak to Gregorius… He did, however, need to hear what was being said. It would do no good to carry out his task and then leave for Londinium not knowing what they were talking about, what they were planning. Because he was convinced they were planning something. His uncle Flavius had told him that Gregorius was charged with bringing the Legions south, and that if he would not kill the Proconsul, then Caius must do the deed, so that the man was unable to object. The Proconsul, Flavius had declared, was an enemy of Rome anyway, had set himself up with his own army, to challenge the might of Rome. He was a traitor, and should die a traitor’s death. Blame would be laid on the General, and then Flavius could despatch his own men to arrest Gregorius and take command. Now all he had to do was find which room they were in. 

**00000000**

“Well, whatever his task is, if he’s Flavius’ nephew, then we cannot trust him,” Gregorius said firmly. “Gods know what he’s been saying to Marcus. So far, Marcus hasn’t raised it with me. Perhaps he wants to deal with it himself. If Caius is openly defiant in front of anyone else…”

“They were right in front of me,” Sherlock reminded. “Do I not count?”

“Ordinary civilians are one thing, but if he were openly defiant in front of the men, well, that would need a public reprimand. Caius is too clever to do that…”

“Yes, he is. By all counts he’s also a nasty piece of work too. Did you know he steals from the lower ranks then makes sure others are blamed?”

“Who told you that?”

“I assured my informant that I would not reveal my source. However, he is best placed to know.”

“Andus.” Gregorius frowned. “It’s my own slave, isn’t it?”

“Before you think about reprimanding him, General, he sees a lot more than you give him credit for. Nobody notices a slave, and if they do, then they are disregarded. They have no power. They cannot accuse their masters. They have no rights. Yet he knows what people are really like. He has seen actions that he could never reveal to you. He would not be believed, for one thing. For another, he would most probably find himself punished instead of helped.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That Caius is not the paragon of virtue most people think. He shifts blame, if it gets him off the hook.”

“I knew he wasn’t perfect, but…” Gregorius glowered, clearly angry. 

“Perhaps it is time to rein him in, to clip his wings?” Mycroft suggested. 

“My slave?"

"No. Your Tribune."

"I need proof of misconduct.” Gregorius was adamant. “For which I will need to speak to Marcus...and Andus...Don’t worry, I won’t punish the man, but his testimony isn’t worth a damn.”

“Your tribune’s is, though,” Sherlock said. “It would perhaps behove you to talk to them both at your earliest opportunity.” 

**000000000**

Outside, Caius leaned on the wall and breathed quietly, trying to calm his racing heart. _Caius is not the paragon of virtue most people think…_

As he stood in the lee of the villa’s wall, waiting for the soldier on duty to disappear around the end of the villa on his patrol route, he had heard low voices coming through the shutters of the dining room. Creeping closer, careful to remain out of sight behind the shrubbery, and pressing his ear to the gap, he was just in time to hear them talking about him. _Caius is not the paragon of virtue most people think_. _..time to rein him in, clip his wings?_ For a moment, he stood frozen with indecision. That was it then. He had to bring his task forward, then leave for Londinium before dawn tomorrow, _take word to uncle, let the next stage of the plan unfold.…._ He stepped out of the cover of the shrubbery, and in his confusion, missed the footsteps coming toward him. 

"Who goes there?" One of the soldiers barked, but modified his tone on recognising the Tribunes' purple band. "Oh, it's you, Tribune. My apologies, but nobody is allowed in this area today. If I may know your business here?"

"Do not presume to question me, soldier," Caius snapped. "I am here to...to pay my respects to Mithras, at the invitation of the Proconsul, and I was looking for the statue." Caius was rather proud of his bluff. “I have not been told of any moratorium on visiting the Proconsul...” The Proconsul _had_ extended the invitation, Caius had been present when the news had been brought, and he knew of no restriction on visiting the area. While it wasn’t really a lie, it was not exactly truth either.

"Very well, sir, but I must respectfully suggest you return on a different day. The legates' orders, sir."

Caius sighed the sigh of the inconvenienced, and feigned irritation. Then he walked across the hortus and left by the rear door. 

Caius went back to barracks as nonchalantly as he could, and packed his few possessions, mercifully without meeting anyone. The others were out on patrol or training, or more probably attending their other duties; writing up punishments, duty rosters, and requisitions for equipment and clothing. Caius would not miss them. They were all beneath him. He was destined for greater things. He fingered the edge of his dagger thoughtfully, before ramming it decisively home in its sheath. It would be sharp enough. Shouldering his equipment he made his way to the stables. There he placed his pack, shield and weapons in his horse’s stall, to await his departure. Caius found the man looking after the horses and said briskly, “I am being sent to Isurium. Have my horse saddled by dawn. Do not speak of this to anyone, is that understood?”

“Yes, Tribune. You have my word.”

“Good.” He leaned into the man’s space threateningly. “This is a covert mission,” he murmured. "No one else is to know, by order of General Gregorius Octavian Silvanus of the VIth Victrix.” The man nodded, looking a little scared. He knew the penalty for divulging secrets. Caius knew the man would not talk to anyone else and left without another word. He needed to speak to Salvius, and quickly. 

**00000000**

“Gregorius, are you certain that your orders come from the Senate,” Sholto asked.

“Well, yes. I had no reason to think otherwise. There was a seal...” 

“Seals can be copied. What exactly did Flavius have to say to you?” 

“He gave me our orders to march north, following the orders I received which brought us to Alba. He sent me a letter too, which arrived when we were half way here. In it, he said he was aiming to bring forward our departure plans to the Ides of March.” Greg looked thoughtfully toward Sholto. “I have not had any word directly with anyone representing the Senate, despite being sent to Alba from our last command. That order came from Senator Vibianus. There was nothing about any of this mess in those orders, until I spoke to Flavius and he sent us north. He told me those orders came from the Senate. I saw a document purporting to have come all the way from Rome, but on reflection, I don’t actually know if he was telling the truth.”

“So you don’t know if Flavius is working for the Senate or for himself?”

“I greatly fear he is not working for the Senate,” Mycroft said. All eyes turned toward him. “He has been a long time adversary of Moriarty. He is clever, appearing to support him, even while opposing him. Flavius is ambitious. My contacts in Rome whom I spoke to extensively before I left its shores all intimated that I should be careful of him, if I were to take up a position in Alba. They told me then that Flavius is no supporter of anyone but himself. On the surface he always seemed to support Maximianus, Moriarty’s father, but still waters run deep. I know Maximianus of old. He was ambitious and devious, a lawyer with no scruples who played a dangerous game with our former Emperor. He was always an outspoken critic, and he was a voice loud enough to garner support too. I was certain Maximianus had played a part in Jovian’s death, but I had no proof. That is why I came here, to escape Rome. Had I stayed, I would most likely have been murdered well before now. If you have had no actual word from the Senate, then it is doubtful your orders came from them. Flavius is just arrogant enough to put his own plans in place and damn the consequences.”

“So, let me get this straight,” John said. “You don’t know where your orders really come from,” he said looking at Gregorius, who nodded, “and you,” he turned to Mycroft, “think Flavius, the Governor General of Alba, is working on his own, on what, some grand plan to become Emperor himself?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Does he have his own army?” John asked. “I mean...how is he expecting to take on Moriarty otherwise?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do keep up, John. Why do you think he despatched Gregorius here? He is pinning his hopes on the VIth and the IXth riding south to provide him with his private army. Doubtless he will promise wealth and power beyond everyone’s imagining in return for loyalty. He most likely has enough soldiers at his beck to support his cause in enforcing that loyalty, but needs the rest to overcome the odds against him that Tigris presents…”

“While you,” John said, regarding his lover, “seem to believe that your visions show a confrontation close to Eboracum between who? Sebastianus Tigris, the IXth and the VIth?”

“I saw two bulls, fighting alongside each other,” the man murmured, “and since my last fortelling, I have seen our sister again…”

“Where exactly does she come in to it?” Gregorius asked bluntly. “I thought you said she was dead?”

“We thought so,” Mycroft explained. “However, neither Sherlock nor I ever saw a body. Nor the child she was supposed to have birthed. Our tribes nearly went to war over it. Sherlock persuaded the Chieftain not to go after revenge. After all, Eurus had willed this union, and death in childbirth is common enough. He brokered peace with both tribes, talked to the husband and chief of the tribe Eurus had married into, and found nothing amiss. Did you?” Myroft saw Sherlock frown slightly.

“No, I did not. At least, they showed me the barrow and the new grave where she and her child, they told me a girl, were supposedly buried.”

“And despite the situation, there’s no way we could have dug up that grave,” John said. “That _would_ have caused a war…”

“Although I noticed no grief at all from her supposed husband,” Sherlock observed. “I know most men are not given to tearing their hair and lamenting their loss but he was curiously...unmoved.” 

“Not in itself unusual.”

“No, but it did not sit well that he said not one word of regret or loss. It was as if he did not care at all.” 

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“Hang on,” Gregorius said. “You said you’d seen her in your dreams more than once then?”

“Yes. The first time I saw her on the hills of Rome standing with the East Wind in her hair and a child, a boy, beside her. Moriarty was on the ground, under her foot.”

“Actually standing on him?” Sholto asked.

“Yes, as if she controlled all before her.” Sherlock frowned. “I saw her again, standing with a tiger beside her, her hand on its head, and a Magpie with purple plumage on her shoulder, the boy child by their feet. Her eyes were hateful, not the carefree little sister I remember…”

“Sherlock, what else did you see?” Mycroft prompted. “Share it with us, please. General Sholto has not been party to this.”

Sherlock cast a bleak glance at John and then regaled them with the details of the first dream again, but then he went on. “I saw her again, last night,” he said, and this time his voice was more troubled than it had ever been. It was clear that this was news to John too, if his expression was anything to go by. “This time it was she who was leading the army, and the Ravens were hers to command. Again I felt the wind and saw the carnage, and great clouds had darkened overhead and cast a shadow over the land. Suddenly the sunlight broke through, a huge bull appeared, sweeping all before it, including Eurus and Tigris and the magpie and all their vast army…”

“Mithras!” Gregorius murmured, awed by the telling.

“Quite possibly,” Sherlock replied. “It spared the boy, who grew into manhood before my eyes. He seems destined for something else. I think she plays a dangerous game. The Bull is waiting, Gentlemen, and the East Wind is coming. You both lead legions for whom the bull is your symbol. Together you are more powerful than apart. Mithras has heard I think, although he is no God of mine. Your Mithraists may be your salvation. Look to them.” 

“If I don't leave here and return by the Ides,” Gregorius said, “then we are in trouble, they’ll come for us and we are not ready. We don’t know yet who we can trust...”

“Find your Mithraists, both of you,” Mycroft intoned. “They are of the Bull, and are your core of strength. Use your symbol to draw you together, and call down the God’s power. Gods know we can use all the help we can get.”

**00000000**

“Now all we have to do is to come up with a convincing excuse to hold our enemies off while we ready ourselves,” Mycroft said, as they refreshed themselves over their midday meal. “We should keep it simple, however. Best not alert our enemies. John, I do believe there may be an outbreak of a rather virulent and contagious fever in the area,” Mycroft said contemplatively. “Deaths have been reported, have they not?”

“I do believe there have,” John replied, catching on. “Some of our tribe are rather ill. I shall ask for the Chieftain’s help with that. Beldgaros is nothing if not favourable to me. I did save his son from drowning, and then his daughter from a fever. He owes me. If you could grease the wheels?”

“He’ll listen to me too, John,” Sherlock murmured. ”He’s a superstitious old owl, he’ll do as I ask,” the Druid said confidently. “When I tell him the Fates have spoken, he’ll do what needs to be done, including the promotion of any deception I say is necessary.” 

“I shall send word to Londinium then, that we have contagion. That should stall them. Nobody in or out for the foreseeable future, gentlemen.”

“What happens when we have nobody actually falling sick?” Gregorius asked. Two sets of eyes turned on him disdainfully. Mycroft glanced at Sherlock who smirked. 

“We don’t actually need cases. Besides, we can pass the rumour that there are a couple of sick servants here, as well as the rumour of one or two in the tribe. Doubtless you can persuade your own man to help. John can deflect anyone seeking proof. We can stop anyone leaving or coming in, at least for a fewkweeks. It may well cause a bit of disruption but ultimately will prove to have been unfounded, by which time we _will_ be ready. Apart from those of us here present, nobody else need know.”

“That will be all it takes. Folk are cautious, they won’t need more convincing,” John said confidently. “

“I shall send a few barrels of my finest to Beldgaros, with thanks. Send out your scouts, John. Make sure they are watchful for any advance on us down Ermine Street.” Mycroft surveyed the group. “We shall buy time, and make our own plans.” 

“I’ll send to Flavius too,” Gregorius added. “I shall send word that there is sickness here, and that you are insisting nobody leaves. Only an insane man would risk bringing a plague down on Londinium, after all.”

“Not a bad idea. It will lend truth to the lie after all.”

**00000000**

“What’s so urgent?” Salvius asked the young man in front of him. Caius was looking furtively around him to make sure they were not overheard. He had spent the day in hiding by the river, watching for his chance to meet with Salvius before nightfall. 

“I came to tell you, I will be leaving in the morning,” he said. Savius ordered wine from the Innkeeper and Caius drank it off. 

“Will you have completed your task by then?” Salvius asked, watching as the young man placed his empty glass on the table. He gestured for a refill. 

“Tonight,” Caius said. “Events have...gone faster than I anticipated.” He waited for the Innkeeper to clear off and then leaned closer. “They have it in for me,” he murmured. "Someone has been spreading rumours about my conduct and they will be watching for me.” Salvius slapped him companionably on the back. 

“Then I wish you luck, my friend. Once this is done, the Legion will follow me. Send word, when you reach Londinium.”

“I shall. What about Sholto?”

“Leave that to me,” Salvius assured him. “He won’t be expecting my betrayal. He trusts me. Here,” he added, handing over a pouch which clinked gently. “Take this. There should be enough in there to see you through. Don’t forget, see that you leave no witnesses.” 

Caius nodded his thanks. “You can be sure of that,” he reassured. He stepped away, and without another word, vanished into the growing shadows.

**000000000**

“I think an early night is in order,” Mycroft said, after the others had departed. Sholto had gone back to barracks. At midday, shortly after their meeting disbanded, Sherlock and John had departed with the Chieftain and his family, back to Isurium with the assurances that they would return on the morrow, once the Chief was back and some of the tribe bribed into helping with their deception. Gregorius was reluctant to return to barracks. He fretted on the one hand that his troops would forget who was in charge, while on the other hand, he enjoyed spending time with Mycroft. The man was...attractive, patrician, even regal. Gregorius longed to ruffle the man’s dignity…

“I would agree. After all, busy day tomorrow. We both have dispatches to write and send off.”

“That we do. You perhaps should return to barracks for a time too. Your men will need you.” 

Gregorius sighed. “I’m getting too old for all this. My men don’t need _me_ , they need someone younger, someone with more stamina. I'm thinking I'll promote Marcus up. People like him. He’s served his time. He’s a good soldier.”

“Granted, this is a younger man’s game, all this marching and fighting, but the energy of youth does not make up for the gravitas of age. You are a wily old fox, with more than enough experience of evading the hunter and his dogs…”

Gregorius laughed. “Fox now, am I? So what does that make you?”

“I have no idea.” Mycroft smiled.

“A player of the great game,” Gregorius said. “I think maybe you’re more the cunning fox than I, Mycroft.”

“You are more lion, I suppose. The warrior, the predator…”

“The Lion of Eboracum, eh?”

“Better than the Tiger of Rome…”


	7. Furem Noctu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a violent turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps not GRAPHIC depictions of violence but I'm putting a warning up that there is a fight scene.

Gregorius could not sleep, although the house was quiet. The wind was up and the shutters were rattling. He couldn’t rest, both because of the noise and because he was so close to Mycroft. Only the thickness of a bloody wall, he considered. The man was as shuttered as his bloody villa windows though, and Gregorius had no idea if his advances would be welcomed or not. Fear that they would not held him back. He dozed fitfully, unable to settle.. 

—————-

A shadowed figure dropped from the wall on soundless feet, into a pile of cuttings and weeds that had been piled up against the wall for composting. Stepping carefully out of the soft mulch, it moved with grace through the Hortus’ winding ways, any noise of its passing masked by the wind. It moved past the shrine to the God, the wilted offerings of spring blossoms having escaped the wind under the shelter of the stone canopy. 

—————-

Gregorius tossed and turned, his leg aching still. He wondered if he shouldn’t simply go to Mycroft and make a declaration of intent, and just get it over with, see what the man said… His resolve failed him, wondering if it were just better to take the man’s friendship rather than risk rejection. Finally unable to stay on his back any longer, he decided to go see if the servants had any warmed wine to sooth him. It was either very late or very early, and either way there was a chance that someone would be in the kitchen.

—————

The shadowed figure walked up to the doors of the garden room and tried them, to find them barred. A soft curse issued from the lips and the figure moved around to the front door. So much for stealth. Although…there was a light in the kitchen. Maybe he could brazen it out, say he wanted to surprise them with a gift, but he would like to leave it somewhere in the house….

As he entered the kitchen, a large man turned to face him, a large cleaver in his hand. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you, Tribune. What are you doing creeping about at this time…?”

“I brought a gift…It’s the General’s birthday and you’ll think me a little mad, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Might I be allowed to place it in the atrium? So he might find it in the morning?”

“Should be fine. They’re all asleep now…”

“Would you guide me? I’m afraid I’m not sure of the way.”

“Come,” Bran said, putting the cleaver down and leading the way.

————

“Bran?” Gregorius called softly as he went toward the kitchen. Nobody answered him. That was strange… He went round the corner and tripped. Cursing, he flung his good arm out to catch himself on the wall and stumbled across the thing that had tripped him. He stopped short, breath clogged in his throat. A body lay across the corridor… Bran? Gregorius bent down, feeling the body, fingers tracing along the man’s neck. Still warm...but nothing, no heartbeat. Dead then. He got back up, back against the wall, unsure what to do. There was an intruder, and the body was still warm. Stabbed in the back, he could see in the light from the kitchen. So where was the bastard? He hadn’t seen anyone on his way there. He hoped whoever it was didn’t know where Mycroft’s room was. 

While he was considering his options, a figure suddenly hove into view and stopped in horror, taking in the scene in front of him. _Fuck it,_ Gregorius thought. He knew what this must look like. Dead servant, himself looming over him… Before Rhodri could move or shout, Gregorius grabbed him, spinning him round, knocking the breath out of him and clamping an unyielding hand over his mouth. 

“Shhh,” he hissed in the boy’s ear. “Don’t jump to conclusions! I did not kill him.” He kept his voice low. “We have an intruder, youngling. I want you to leave by the kitchen door, go to the nearest guard you see in the road and tell him, General Gregorius at the Proconsul’s house has need of help, and quickly. Demand they come at once. Raise the alarm, then bring them to the main gate, you got that, boy?” Gregorius gave the lad a shake, and Rhodri nodded, eyes full of anguish. He fled as soon as he was released. Gregorius straightened and set off toward Mycroft’s room, listening hard. He had no weapon. He was effectively bare handed if it came to a fight. He padded along the corridor and paused to listen. There was a noise, soft, like a door opening. 

————

Mycroft tossed and turned in his sleep, waking with a start. He lay still, wondering what had woken him. Thoughts turned to the man who was lying in the next room, the one his brother had said carried death with him. Gregorius was not the man they thought he was, Mycroft was sure. He may have been sent to kill, but it was not in his heart to do so. The man was sick of death, and had been effectively duped by his superior. Such an act was warring with his loyalty to Rome. His oath made him loyal to the Emperor, whichever one sat on the throne. Although the actions of this one stretched that oath to its limits… _And if I express what is in my heart…? What on earth will you do with that?_

Mycroft tried to still his racing heart and failed. He held himself back from dashing into the man’s room and declaring his devotion like some heroine in a Greek tragedy. That was simply unseemly. However they should at least talk. The tension was driving Mycroft mad. The sound of a door opening somewhere made him pause. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was up. He rose and wrapped himself in a robe, padding on bare feet to the door. As he was about to open it, the handle moved. Mycroft froze. _What…?_ He very carefully stepped to the side of the door that would hide him as it opened. _Who the hell…? Was Gregory coming to do the very same thing to him?_

————---

 _Every door is the damn same_ , the Tribune thought, creeping into the third room along the corridor. It had to be one of them. He lifted the pugio, the soldier’s sort dagger, and stepped inside. This room was also in darkness. Nothing seemed amiss and he moved to the rumpled bed. There was no one in it. Frustrated, he turned, to be met with a large earthenware jar descending toward his head.

Gregorius caught up just as the man opened the door to Mycroft’s room. There was a brief pause, and then a crash, and the General flung himself though. Sprawled on the floor, tangled in his hooded robe and the sherds of broken vase, lay a familiar figure. 

“What in Mithras’ name…?” Gregorius made a grab for the man but he was clumsy, and Caius struggled up and away, dagger levelled at them. 

“Don’t look so surprised, General. Just in case you couldn’t be trusted to carry out your orders, my uncle ordered me to carry them out for you. You’ve betrayed those orders, Legate.” 

“Why, Caius? Flavius is a two-faced bastard and you know it. He’ll throw you to the wolves if it suits him. What can you hope to gain by doing this?”

“A promotion of course. I get to return home to Rome, in triumph, to serve on the Senate.”

“You, you young whelp? You have no understanding, do you? Flavius has no intention of honouring that promise. He’ll see you in hell first. So what now, hm? You can’t take both of us.”

“I can take you easily, old man. Don’t forget, I know how badly injured you were. Even now, you can’t move around easily without your crutches. Then I’ll get rid of the other traitor to Rome…” He cast a nasty look toward Mycroft. 

Shouts came from outside, from the vicinity of the front door. Caius flicked his glance away, momentarily distracted, and Gregorius took his chance. He lunged, one hand fastening like iron on the Tribune’s wrist, thumb digging into the tendons hard. His momentum took them both down, but the hand holding the dagger had suddenly gone numb and it clattered uselessly to the floor. Mycroft kicked it away, and the two men struggled. Suddenly the door was filled with people, and two burley soldiers pushed their way in and proceeded to drag the two men apart.

“Arrest that man,” Mycroft ordered, pointing to Caius. The Soldiers glanced at each other as it sank in who the men were that they were holding. “That is General Gregorius of the Victrix, and you will handle him with care,” Mycroft ordered, authoritatively. He had a particularly strident voice when he needed it. “He is recovering from his injuries. This…” he gestured to Caius. “This whelp is his subordinate and a traitor. He tried to assassinate me. He would have done so had the General not been here.” The soldier holding Gregorius loosened his grip, sufficiently to keep the man upright but no longer restraining him. The other took better hold on Caius and dragged him out of the room and into the hands of more soldiers outside. 

“Bind him,” Gregorius ordered. “You...Who are you?” he said to the one holding him.

“Cassian Tertius, sir. Centurion, 2nd Cohort, IXth Legion Hispana.”

“Cassian, well done. I take it you came at the behest of the lad there?”

“Yes, sir. Came out shouting blue murder, sir. Said your name and we came right away, sir.”

“Glad you did. Who is the other one with you?”

“Vitus Manius, sir.”

“Well, Cassian, Vitus, I will be speaking to your Legate. I think honours are due for your prompt response there.” Both men inclined their heads in acknowledgement of their superior officer’s words. “So...where will you take him?”

“The lock-up, sir? Cells under the Forum? We can keep him secure there.”

“I don’t want him seen or heard by anyone, you understand? Keep it quiet. I have reason to believe he’s not working alone.”

“You want us to loosen his tongue, sir?”

“No. This is a delicate situation, demanding discretion. Of course, I am sure you know how important discretion can be. So...keep him under guard. We’ll be along at first light. Can you do that, Cassian? Make sure nobody sees him? Throw him in a sack, if you will, but we need him alive.”

“Yes, sir.” The men dragged Caius out under guard, gagged, and bound both hand and foot.

“My Lord, are you alright?” Anthea rushed toward them, a robe wrapped a little haphazardly around her. “What happened? I heard shouting.” She watched the soldiers leave with their captive. Two stationed themselves by the door of the villa. 

“Someone tried to kill Mycroft,” Gregorius said. “He’s fine. We have the attacker.”

“I am fine, my dear,” Mycroft reassured the shocked woman, sounding somewhat strained himself. “Are you alright?” he asked Gregorius.

“Me? Yes, I think so. Although…” he probed his shoulder, finding it painful. “Ow...yes, I think I pulled something…” Gregorius paused, aware of a soft snuffling further along the corridor. “Damn it all. Call your servants, Mycroft. Bran’s dead. That bastard stabbed him in the back…”

“Bran? Oh, gods,” Anthea murmured, visibly upset.

Mycroft’s brows drew down, pained. “He was a good man.” 

“Rhodri…” Gregorius found the lad huddled on the floor. He grasped his arm and gently drew him to his feet, wrapping his arms around the boy. “No shame in mourning him, boy, he was a good man.” Tearful eyes turned up to him. 

“He was my f.f.father,” Rhodri said softly.

“He looked after the lad when he first came into my possession,” Mycroft explained. “Acted like the father he never knew. Rhodri was only ten when I bought him in Rome. He and Bran came with me here.”

“Ten?” 

“I bought him from a trader, six years ago. He was malnourished and scared, but there was something about him...reminded me of Sherlock, I think. I cared for him, and he rewarded me with hard work and loyalty...I am sorry, Rhodri. I did not protect you or Bran…” Mycroft reached to stroke the boy’s hair. 

“Not...no, sir. You...you couldn’t have known.” He looked lost. “Don’t blame yourself...please.” 

Mycroft smiled at him and said “I shall pay for a fine funeral for him. He deserves it. We shall bury him along the south road, where we arrived. I shall afford a stone to his memory.”

“But, sir, he was only a slave…”

“Never _only_ a slave, Rhodri. I shall declare him free, so he will be buried as a free man, and you, I shall free you too, in his honour. How would you feel about that?”

“Free? Me? Really?” A fresh bout of tears threatened. The lad dropped to the floor at Mycroft’s feet in obeisance. 

“Come now, none of that,” Mycroft said kindly. “Get thee to bed, now. You’ve had a trying time. We shall see to him tomorrow. You are excused your duties on the morrow, at least until the General has dealt with his man. Rest and mourn. Sylvia?” An older woman came forward. “Get the boy a warm drink, and get Darrius and Morven to move the body and clean the floor. Place Bran on his bed for now. Anthea, can you and Sylvia and the other women see to the rites?” Anthea nodded and then she and Sylvia left, taking the boy with them. Sylvia threw instructions out at various people along the way. 

“A good woman, she will keep the rest steady. Between them, she and Anthea have my household well under control.” Mycroft sighed. “Bran will be missed. He was a good man, kind and fair.”

“Like his owner then.”

Mycroft huffed. “Gods...there but for you... I would be dead by now.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“No, I am not.” Mycroft shivered. 

“Pity about your vase.” Gregorius grinned wolfishly. “It was a good blow though…”

Mycroft laughed, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Mithras, a man is dead and I feel...Is one supposed to feel...I don’t know...energised?”

“That’s the way sometimes after combat, one feels...either exhausted or...pent up.”

“What on earth does one do to...well, let it loose?”

“Not sure you’d want to know.”

“Why not?”

“Well, how would you usually...let go?”

“I would jump in my plunge pool, or go for an energetic ride.”

For a moment, Gregorius actually looked disappointed. Then he said “That’s...not what I was thinking but...each to his own, I suppose.” 

“What were you thinking?”

“As I said, I’m not sure you’d want to know.”

“Oh, you mean, find some willing woman…”

“Well, some would.”

“You would favour...finding a man then?” This was asked tentatively. 

“I would, yes. Loved the Brothels in Rome, you could find anything there.” He sighed. 

“There’s a man lying dead,” Mycroft reiterated. “It doesn’t feel right…” .

“Nonsense. He fell to a traitor. He died so we might live, and we should honour him by living…” Gregorius stepped close, eyes holding Mycroft’s in an intense dark stare. He leaned in and growled into Mycroft’s ear, lips grazing the shell of it. “Your choice, Proconsul. I’m offering…” The man’s voice had deepened, and Mycroft found his senses sharpening. He was suddenly acutely aware of the man’s muscular body in such close proximity, the heat of his skin, and the scent of male musk and leather…

“Say the word, Proconsul,” Gregorius purred, whiskers rasping on Mycroft’s cheek. “And you could have my hands all over you. My body is yours...if you wish it. On you.. _.In you_...just give me the word…” 

Mycroft shivered, a full-body tremble. His heart was hammering. He felt the man’s hands on his flanks, grasping more gently than he might have imagined, fingers flexing into his flesh, a promise of more. This was a man who was used to getting his own way, and Mycroft could imagine him quite capable of taking what he wanted. Yet, he was waiting. For Mycroft to make up his mind. For permission. 

The Proconsul leaned in, turning his head so that his lips brushed the man’s ear. “I’m yours, General,” he murmured, and felt the man’s fingers tighten into his clothing and pull him closer.


	8. Venient Simul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for the smut… So the rough Roman General and the sophisticated Proconsul get it together…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the rating and the warnings, because this chapter contains a bit of violence. The Roman Army was not a place for weaklings, and Caius has to be dealt with. Wrongdoing was met with zero tolerence and the punishments were often harsh to deter soldiers from desertion, murder, theft and sundry other offences. Sentences could include a public flogging, fines, crap duties (no pun intended, but cleaning out the latrines) and extra duties, demotion and death. Being found guilty of desertion, for instance, one might find oneself blugeoned to death by the members of your own troop.

A single earthenware lamp flickered on the table, leaving most of the room in shadow. Mycroft had quickly doused all but one of the lights and now it was just the two men alone together, blanketed by the soft darkness, flickering flame revealing fickle outlines of shoulder, hand, hip. Clothes were shed in haste, snakeskin layers peeled away until they were exposed to each other's gaze, each man finding himself suddenly eager for the other's touch.

"Beautiful," Gregorius murmured, allowing his hands to roam across soft skin, hints of pale cream glimpsed as the lamp's little flame danced in the air. He skimmed a hand across belly and flank, tracing lean muscle and bone. Mycroft shivered under these touches, his own fingers tracing scars that marred the powerful muscles. “I’m sorry, I’m not...flawless,” Gregorius said. “Unlike you…” 

Mycroft snorted. “I am sorry to disappoint, but I think you will find I am far from flawless…”

“Alright then, let me be more specific. You are unmarred by the scars of war.”

“I am rather afraid that my scars are not visible…” 

Gregorius leaned in and pressed a kiss to a freckled shoulder. “Well,” he murmured softly, tracing the back of his fingers gently across Mycroft’s cheek, “if I can help heal them in any way, you only have to say…”

Mycroft smiled. “I think,” came the soft reply, “that you are already doing so.”

“That’s good. Once got told I would never make a good surgeon on account of my hands...Too clumsy.”

“Pish,” Mycroft said, dismissively, capturing one of the offending hands in his. "You are certainly not displaying clumsiness tonight.” He very deliberately raised the hand to his lips and sucked one of the fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around it. Gregorius' eyes went dark, pupils dilating with arousal. 

“Is that," he asked, gruffly, "an order or an observation?"

“Merely an observation,” Mycroft purred, sucking another fingertip into his mouth. Gregorius growled in response. Mycroft let the fingers go, and traced his own fingernail along a faint scar that crossed one pectoral, feeling the shiver of skin underneath his touch. “You have… strength," he murmured, seductively, "as well as bravery, and vigour…” He leaned in and pressed his lips to the scar. 

“That one," Gregorius muttered, "was the foolishness of youth. Thracia, in ‘78. I was a young Eques in Valen’s army, and I was showing off...”

“What did you do?”

“Only fell off my horse, then got set upon by three enemy soldiers.”

“You survived.”

“Yes, I did. My commander near finished the job when I recovered, though. He let me live, because I’d managed to kill all three of the enemy, and then catch my horse. On top of that, we won the battle.”

“You live and learn,” Mycroft murmured, finger tracing a short scar that cut up across his brow. Gregorius smile widened. “Someone tried to mar my pretty face with that one.”

“And what did you do to him…?”

“Wasn’t a him.” Mycroft frowned. “We liberated a town, and this woman...nearly lost her child under my horse’s hooves. In the chaos, the kid had run scared. I picked the him up and put him on my saddle, intending to return him to her, but she thought I was making off with him and attacked me. She had to be dragged off by my men.” He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Women. Never had the right of them…”

“No wife in Rome then, no woman waiting for you somewhere?”

“Are you joking? Only thing I ever had from a woman was trouble. Nope, I much prefer men. We’re simpler creatures. You know where you stand, and they’re easy enough to command…”

"Take command then, General," Mycroft murmured, aware of a pleading note in his voice, and was rewarded with an almost feral grin, teeth showing white in the gloom. 

"As you wish," came the growled reply, and Mycroft found himself crowded against the nearest wall, hands above his head, pinned by the general's superior weight. He was surprised when the man let his hands go, and sank to his knees. With one mischievous glance back up to Mycroft’s face, Gregorius swallowed his prick down in one greedy mouthful. The breath knocked out of him with surprise, Mycroft gasped for air. He flailed for something to hold onto, held up by a rock steady grip on his hips, and his hands came to rest in the short hair, fingers tightening reflexively in the silver strands as this powerful man worshipped him with hands and lips and tongue... As his fingers tightened in the man’s hair, Gregorius moaned around him, and suckled hard, threatening to tip Mycroft over the edge too soon. He tugged hard on the General's hair then, frantic to stop before he reached the point of no return. Gregorius got the message and pulled off, grinning. 

"Beast," Mycroft muttered, and pulled the man into a messily desperate kiss. Gregorius obliged, plundering Mycroft's mouth, chasing the taste of wine on his tongue. The Proconsul found himself being hefted easily into the air and then born to the bed. He was laid down on the furs and Gregorius moved over him, kissing his way up Mycroft's body from his ankles, along the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, across his belly to his throat, paying special attention to the peaked nipples along the way. The wicked tongue swirled across Mycroft's flesh, the lips mouthing Gregorius’ joy in the contact. Mycroft found himself pinned under the weight of the muscular body, surrounded by the man's heat and scent, earthy and primal. Hands found his and pushed them above his head, locking his wrists in the grip of one large calloused hand. “You want me,” Gregorius murmured huskily. 

“Desperately…” Mycroft agreed, writhing his hips in an effort to seek friction against the body on top of him. 

“Good. Just the way I like it…”

“What do you prefer, General? A willing slave, perhaps?”

“Rather a powerful man who is willing to submit to me…” He smiled again, a lascivious grin that made Mycroft’s breath catch. Gregorius nuzzled Mycroft’s throat, hot breath making him shiver. Teeth grazed his earlobe and he moaned softly.

“You remember what I said?” Mycroft’s fuzzed brain could not catch up and he frowned. “I’m yours. You can have me on you...or in you...your choice.” Mycroft’s gaze was intense as he stared back at the man pinning him down. “Mithras, but you are gorgeous," Gregorius said. "I’d lay bets that you would feel amazing around my prick…What about it, Mycroft? Me moving inside you...slowly filling you up?” Mycroft inhaled sharply. Gregorius sucked gently on his ear, one hand stroking his side. He licked his lips, regarding Mycroft from mere inches away. There was a challenge in his eyes. 

“I believe you said it was my choice? Would you go back on that famous word of yours?” Mycroft smiled, but raised an eloquent eyebrow and waited.

Gregorius laughed. “Well said, _Proconsul_ ,” he replied. “Ever the diplomat. So, what will it be, your honour?“ 

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Oh, I think you know, General. Doubtless you are more experienced at plunging your weapon into new territory than I.” For a moment, Gregorius just stared at him, and then he slid a hand behind his lover’s head, leaning in for a deep kiss, melding his mouth with Mycroft’s. Tongues sliding over one another, the kiss was all consuming in its intensity. When they broke apart, both gasping for air, Gregorius was the first to move, leaning over and tipping one of the small unlit lamps, spilling the fine oil into his hand. He used the oil to slick himself, then moved Mycroft onto his stomach, stroking down the man’s spine with firm fingers and eliciting an appreciative groan in the process. His leg put up a token protest but he ignored it. He kneaded the firm globes of Mycroft’s arse and then spread them wide to admire the man laid out before him. 

Mycroft writhed, gasping, lifting his hips into the touch. He felt those knowledgeable fingers teasing him open, and Mycroft found himself wondering how many lovers the man must have had over his years. When he felt the blunt head of the man's prick pressing in, Mycroft almost lost control. He moaned, loud, to find a hand slide over his mouth. “Shh, easy there...Best keep it down? You’ll have the servant’s talking. Might think someone is trying to kill you again and attempt a rescue…”

Mycroft panted hard behind the restraining fingers, trying not to laugh. Absurd, he thought. Gregorius moved his hand and slid it to the bed beside Mycroft’s head, supporting his own weight as he thrust his hips forward, pushing further in. Mycroft bit the pillow, muffled moans lower than before, but still audible.

“Easy there,” Gregorius murmured again, as he withdrew. Mycroft panted again, overwhelmed. Gregorius thrust back in, filling him to the hilt this time. He settled, allowing Mycroft to adjust, before pulling back, then thrusting in again, setting a rhythm. He would pull out, slow and easy, then slide back in fast, going deep. He varied it, pulling back and give a few quick shallow thrusts, before sliding in once more.

“Let me see you,” Mycroft ordered, part plea. Gregorius paused, then pulled completely out. Mycroft rolled, and spread his legs wantonly. Gregorius loomed over him, stealing a kiss again as he pushed back inside, sheathing himself in the tight heat, stifling his own moan at the intensity. Mycroft dragged him down for another deep kiss, rocking his hips up as he did so. Gasping, Gregorius settled into his rhythm again; a slow retreat, followed by a swift advance. 

All too soon, Mycroft felt the intensity increase, his awareness expanded and his senses sharpened. He watched Gregorius’ eyes widen as his orgasm crashed through him, spending himself deep in Mycroft’s body. Gregorius slid a hand between them, closing his fingers around Mycroft’s cock. That small action was all it took to tip Mycroft over, and one slide of Gregorius' fingers turn him into a shaking, moaning mess in the General’s arms, spending himself between them. 

“Beautiful,” Gregorius murmured into his hair, petting him. “I would have won my bet. You do feel amazing around my prick.” Mycroft chuckled. 

“Nobody came to rescue me,” he said into the darkness. 

“Ah, they knew I was here, that’s why.”

“And you have saved me more than once,” Mycroft murmured, eyes closing.

“You’re worth saving,” the General replied sleepily, wrapping an arm around his lover and pulling him close. 

0000000

A knock on the door roused Gregorius from a deep restful sleep, despite it only being a few hours since he had drifted off, wrapped in Mycroft’s embrace. They had expended their pent up energy most effectively, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk. He untangled himself from the furs and Mycroft’s limbs and grabbed his tunic, throwing it over his head before he went to see who was calling on them.

“Yes,” he growled, opening the door. 

“Ah...Good day, General.” The woman...Sylvia...stood there, bearing a tray. “I have brought the Proconsul some sustenance before the day begins. There are people waiting to see him. Anthea is with them now.”

“That’s good. I’ll wake him and tell him, Sylvia. Our thanks,” he said, taking the tray.

“I shall instruct your man that you are with the Proconsul? He has your tray ready."

"If you please.” She nodded and hurried away. Gregorius pondered Mycroft’s effect on him. _I’m treating slaves with more respect,_ he thought. Time was when he’d just have ordered the woman to go and get it herself and to be quick about it. He placed the tray on the table, shed his tunic again, and went back to the bed. He slid under the furs and gathered the man into his arms and placed kisses on his neck, a place he had learned made Mycroft squirm. Mycroft writhed pleasurably at the touch and opened his eyes with a smile.

“Good morning, General…” 

“Morning, Proconsul. Apparently there are people waiting to see you and Anthea is with them at the moment. Your woman brought you a tray…”

“That was Bran's job…" For a brief moment, Mycroft looked troubled, and then his expression cleared and he nodded. "I should rise…” 

He yelped as a hand landed on a sensitive part of his anatomy. “Thought you already had,” Gregorius said with a lascivious grin, stroking the obvious morning glory in an effort to distract the man from sorrow. 

“Beast,” Mycroft muttered, but he lifted his hips into the touch and smiled. “Later. There are urgent matters to attend.” 

00000000

They entered the reception room to find several people awaiting them. Sholto stood talking with Anthea, Sherlock and John standing in close proximity, voices low, talking urgently.

“Gentlemen?” Mycroft said by way of greeting as he swept into the room. “Do we find you well?” Four sets of eyes turned on them.

“That’s what we want to know of you two,” John said. “We rode hard last night when we realised there was likely to be trouble. The Lady Anthea has told us the jist of what went on.” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, looking his brother over. “You are...alright?”

“Fine, brother. As you see, I escaped the clutches of the traitor, with the good General’s help.” 

“We rode as fast as we could,” John said, “although it looks like we wouldn’t have done any good. Only found out late last night, when one of my scouts revealed he’d seen your tribune leaving the garden just after we’d been discussing him. The lad didn’t think to say anything, because the man was an officer.”

“You tried, John,” Mycroft said. “I thank you for that.”

“I am sorry, brother. I did not see his betrayal in my foretellings.”

“As I have often said before, Sherlock, sometimes the Gods do not tell us all.”

“We got him, that’s what matters,” Gregorius said. 

“I take it that it’s the one we talked of yesterday?” Sholto asked. 

“Yes, the same. The whelp said he was sent to do the job I had been tasked with, and if I wouldn’t do it, then he would. He failed, due to a rather well-aimed amphora.” He shared a smile with Mycroft, who noted the General sounded proud. 

“Thereby hangs a tale,” Sholto said. 

“The most important thing is to ascertain whether he was working alone,” Mycroft said. 

“He’s my officer, I’ll deal with it.” Gregorius’ tone brooked no argument. “I should be the one to question him.”

“Then allow me to help,” Sherlock said, voice cold. “After all, it was my brother he tried to murder.” Gregorius only nodded. 

“Then I suggest we do not wait any longer. I have a letter to send to Londinium, we have orders to issue, and the fortress must be locked down, no one in or out.”

“I can deal with that,” Sholto said. “I shall put extra guards on all towers and gates.”

“When we’ve done here,” John said, “we’ll get back to Isurium. We should arrange things there with our Chief, get the cover story right. We had no time last night. Will you allow us passage back through?”

“Only for you, Sherlock, and your men, John. We should keep coming and going to a minimum.”

“Wait for me here,” Sherlock said to John. “I shouldn’t be long…We’ll return when I get back.”

“I will see you get fresh horses,” Mycroft said. “Yours must be exhausted from the ride." He paused a moment. "I need a scribe. Bran had the steadiest hand."

"Andus has a decent hand. I'll send him to you. If you have writing materials?"

"Yes, of course, and thank you. Anthea, my dear, would you bring the writing supplies?" 

0000000

The men guarding Caius’ cell under the Forum were under no illusions that the men who approached them, the General of the VIth, accompanied by the tribal priest, meant business. The look in the men’s eyes told them it would be wise to do everything they were told. 

“He’s unharmed?” Gregorius snapped.

“Yes, General.”

“Has he been given food?”

“No, sir. We did not have orders to feed or water him…Nobody has been in the cell all night. No one knows he’s here, as per instructions.”

Gregorius nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. Is he shackled?”

“To the wall, sir. We left him gagged as well.”

“You’ve done well. Which legion are you?”

“Yours, General. Third Cohort, VIth Victrix, under centurion Lucidius, sir.”

“I will commend you to him, both of you. Now, this man is under investigation. Nobody is to know he’s here, is that clear?”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

“Keep this to yourselves, and turn a blind eye. After you leave here, when they relieve you, you speak of this to no one, you understand? I will see you get a bonus to your pay, and a commendation. If anyone asks, tell them you aided me when I needed it the most. However, if you let this slip, your tongue will be ripped out with hot irons. Do I make myself understood?”

“Of course, sir. Do you need our help, sir?”

“We’ll manage. Now open the door, and then lock it behind us. If anyone comes visiting, unless it is either General Sholto or the Proconsul, you keep them well away, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“There is one thing you can do. Go get me some water.”

Caius was shackled to the rings in the cell wall. He was dirty, dishevelled, and angry. Gregorius cut the gag off him and Caius snapped his teeth closed a hair’s breadth from his fingers, like a vicious dog. That earned him a back-handed slap to the face.

“Do that again and I will beat the living shit out of you,” Gregorius threatened. “Now, you are going to tell me who you are working for and who you are working with. Otherwise, so help me, I will take you to pieces, bit by little bit, and display every last piece of you on the walls as a warning. Now, don’t take me for a fool." He held out the cup of water the guard had fetched, just out of reach. "I don't doubt you're thirsty, and I want to be able to understand you. Drink." The order brooked no refusal. Half-expecting to be spat at, Gregorius held the cup up to the man's mouth and Caius drank greedily. "Good. Now start talking.”

“I was following orders…” Caius ground out through gritted teeth. 

“Whose orders?”

“I was following orders…”

“Caius, I know Flavius is your uncle. You’re working for him.”

“If you’re so fucking clever, why ask?” Caius yelled, spittle flying from a mouth twisted in rage.

“Just confirmation, from your lips, that he’s involved. So...let’s try again. Who are you working for, and who with?”

“Nobody. I was working for myself! And I work alone...” 

“You said you were following orders, so whose?” 

“Go to Hell…” Gregorius backhanded him across the face again, rocking his head back with a crunch against the wall.

“That’s to begin with. Now, do you want it to get nastier?” Gregorius snarled, flexing his knuckles. “There are many, many ways we can go from here…”

“Hypocrite! Bastard hypocrite!”

“You have not just dishonoured yourself, you have dishonoured the Legion,” Gregorius growled, “and all you can bleat is that you were following orders?” 

A half hour slipped by. Caius would only tell them he had been tasked with doing the same thing Gregorius had been ordered to do. He spat at them that the General was a hypocrite, a traitor himself.

“There’s one difference between me and you, boy,” the General said quietly. “I know what is right and what is wrong. You set out to murder the Proconsul, and then what, me too?” He glanced at Sherlock but the priest was silent. “You murdered an innocent man…”

“A slave, he was a fucking slave!” Caius spat. “He was less than the dust on my boots. In Rome, it would be my right to do so...”

“But we are not in Rome now, boy. You still killed him. So, who are you working with? I cannot believe your uncle would not have set someone to watch you, to make sure of your loyalty. A contact, perhaps. Someone in our camp…?”

“You’ll not find anything more out from me!” Caius yelled, straining at his bonds. Anger was better than fear, after all. Gregorius knew the lad was terrified, underneath the bravado, but he was a devious and nasty piece of work, and he couldn’t bring himself to care that much. 

“I chose not to follow the path I was sent on,” Gregorius said, “because your uncle is a traitor himself. This Empire is dying, and so help me, I will not help it along the way.” 

Eventually, he drew away to consult with Sherlock. “The lad is scared, but he’s angry too. I am not sure we’ll get the name of his contact out of him without putting more pressure on him...and I am really not in the mood for torture…”

“Going soft, General?”

“Perhaps. Blame it on your brother.”

“Why don’t you call one of your officers to do the job?”

Gregorius sighed. “This is my business, that’s why. I am his commanding officer, and he tried to kill your brother…”

“You are sure there is a contact?”

“No, but I’m also disinclined to believe he was on his own.” 

“Leave him to me then, General. Why don’t you go find your Tribunus Laticlavius or whatever you call him and ask him if he knew of Caius meeting with anyone. Perhaps, in the meantime, I can scare the answer out of him…”

For a moment, Gregorius was struck with indecision. Then he sighed. “I guess you have a right, considering the familial connection. Just...try to keep him alive. I want him to answer for his crimes.”

“Did you learn anything?” Mycroft asked when Gregorius returned.

“Very little. Sherlock is trying to scare him to death…"

"My brother could scare most people, given the correct circumstances."

"Gods, I need a drink.”

“I shall call for wine?”

“Anything stronger?”

“I can call for burnt wine?”

“Right now, I’ll take anything…”

000000000

“He went into the vicus to meet someone, that I do I know,” Marcus said, thoughtfully. “Although I don’t know who. He went once or twice, and for someone who doesn’t know anyone else here, that struck me as unusual. I can ask the others for you, but Caius wasn’t a very sociable fellow.”

“Well, in case he mentioned it in passing, ask them. This whole business is damning.”

“Do you want me to deal with him? I swear I’ve been waiting for the opportunity. He’s a disgrace to the army, he lies, and he steals, but we have no evidence.”

“What would you do with him, Marcus?”

“Do with him? As in his sentence, you mean?” Gregorius nodded. “If he was an ordinary soldier, I would make an example of him. I would call out any who have a grievance against him, and they would beat him to death in full view of the rest of the Legion, and I can tell you now, I know there will be no shortage of volunteers for that task.”

“He’s a tribune.”

“And you are a General. Execute him, sir. Have him taken out and flogged, then take his head off.”

“I can imagine what will happen when the Governor General of Alba hears that his beloved nephew has been executed for treason…”

“He won’t, sir. He’ll hear that his beloved nephew has been executed for desertion. I will testify that I caught him as he was about to run. The man at the stables had Caius’ horse ready this morning. Said that Caius had told him not to say anything, that he was leaving on a covert mission. It looks like desertion to me, sir.”

“Whatever Flavius hears, he won’t like it.”

“Then it won’t matter what we do, sir, will it?”

“NO! GET AWAY FROM ME!” Gregorius could hear the screams all the way down the corridor on his return. He was let into the room and the guards immediately turned away, averting their eyes. Around where the man was bound to the wall, strange symbols had been scratched into the floor, a circle around where he sat had been traced in salt, and there were bits of bone and feather strategically placed in the geometric patterns.

“One for the Great Lord…” Sherlock was intoning. “One for the Mother…” A candle had been lit on the left side of the circle, and wax had been dripped onto the man and the objects around him. Sherlock was in the process of lighting another, and dripping its wax all over the other side of the circle. “Here is a soul in need of a home, the man who owns that soul has forfeited his right to own it…”

Caius turned pleading eyes on Gregorius. “General...this is wrong...please, I will atone for my actions, anything, but not this. Don’t let him take my soul...He is conjuring up his foul demons...they are waiting for me…” 

“Sounds like a fitting punishment to me. Carry on,” Gregorius said, ddryly, standing back and folding his arms.

“YOU CAN’T!” Caius screamed, terrified. “It’s not right…”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Gregorius regarded the man dispassionately. “You are a lying, cheating little shit, and you are about to get what’s coming to you. For all I care…”

“ALRIGHT, I’LL TELL YOU…”

For a moment, Gregorius looked at the man before him, tears and snot and blood congealing on his tunic. “Tell me,” he said.”Then I might consider it…”

“You are r.r.right...F.F.Flavius is my uncle, he gave me to understand I would be handsomely rewarded if I served death on the Proconsul, and you, because my uncle did not trust that you would do as you were bid, and my...my...contact would serve the same to Sholto…Then he would take over the legions, fetch them south…”

“And you believed this would work?” Caius nodded. “The foolishness of youth. I’m not sure what surprises me more, the fact that you were taken in by your uncle, or that he obviously believed this was going to work as well...Or did he? So, who is your contact?” For a moment, there was silence apart from Sherlock’s intonations which had devolved into what Gregorius thought was his own language. Gregorius held up a hand and Sherlock paused, expectantly. Into the silence, Caius spoke, voice soft and broken.

“Sholto’s Tribunus Laticlavius…”

“Salvius?”

“Tiberticus Salvius, yes…” Caius slumped, head hanging low. 

“I hope for your sake, you are telling me the truth.” As he spoke, Sherlock began chanting again, whirling on the spot, his robes flaring out. 

“NO!” Caius yelled out. “NO, YOU SAID…”

“I said I might consider it…”

“Please, Sir, I don’t care what you do to me, but don’t let him take away my chance of seeing my family again….”

“Swear on their names that what you have just told me is truth!” 

“I SWEAR, I SWEAR!” Caius shouted, straining away from the wall. 

“Priest,” Gregorius ordered. “Cease this ritual. Your Gods will not have a soul this day.” Sherlock came slowly to a halt and blinked.

“Glad you stopped me there,” he said. “I was getting rather dizzy.” 

“Are you telling me that was all nonsense?”

Sherlock looked rather smug. They were currently heading back to Mycroft’s residence, making haste but trying not to draw attention to themselves, which was difficult where Sherlock was concerned. “Complete fabrication, General,” he said, “but I couldn’t expect a Roman soldier to know that. All it took was a little imagination, some bits and pieces picked up from the floor, and a couple of candles. The salt was a bit expensive though…” 

“I’ll compensate you for the loss,” Gregorius said. “Seriously, you scared him witless.”

“He believed me, that was what counted.”

“Yes, it was. Was that...allowed? I mean…your Gods won’t be...well, angry with you, will they?”

“That was by no means a formal ritual, and I did not properly invoke either their presence or their power,” Sherlock explained. “Believe me, had that been real, there would have been no mistaking it.”

“Then how did you know it would work?”

“Aren’t you scared of Druidry, General? Would you not believe I could take your soul and feed it to my Gods if I so desired?” Their eyes met, Sherlock’s pale irises locked on the General’s dark brown with an intensity that Gregorius found deeply unsettling. He was the first to look away.

"Very little scares me these days…" 

Sherlock smiled. "Then if I wanted to subdue your power, the trick would be in learning what does. I learned long ago that Roman citizens fear the afterlife, that you greatly fear being barred from your Elysium. I also learned that your kind believe me capable of many things, given a little theatre…"

"My kind? Watch it, lad. You are half-Roman yourself…"

"Which gives me the edge, General. I grew up in a Roman household, and I know how you think."

“Point taken. It got the job done, anyway," Gregorius replied, although he couldn’t quite keep his unease out of his voice.

"Oh, there's no need for alarm, Gavrinus. If I wanted to scare you, removing your soul wouldn't be my aim."

"Its Gregorius, you arse. Go on then, what would you do?"

Sherlock's eyes met his for an instant. Then he smiled. "I think you're far more scared of losing my brother than losing what passes for your soul. After all, you're a Roman General, a Legate. I would have thought you'd lost your soul years ago…"


	9. Dominae Fati Crudelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate is a cruel mistress... Several people meet theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this hangs together. Is this tying up loose ends too easily? Is this cliched? Comments please. I want to hear how you think this is going...
> 
> WARNING: okay, I am giving you a warning, and it's a spoilery one for the outcome of this chapter. Delivering a coup de grace was not uncommon. Injuries whereby the soldier was deemed not to be able to recover, especially wounds suffered on the battlefield, would warrant putting him out of his misery as a responsible thing to do. A gut injury poisons its sufferer, and it can take days to die from such damage, days spent in agony. What may seem cruel to us, was perhaps more commonplace in the Roman Army. However, I am not sure why I had this occur. I would be interested to read people's thoughts, and I hope no one is offended or squicked out. 
> 
> FIRST AID NOTE: NEVER TAKE OUT A KNIFE FROM A STAB WOUND. It plugs the wound and stops the patient bleeding out. Anything in a pentrating injury, leave it there, and call 999 (UK) or 911 (USA).

"Salvius? You're certain of this?" Sholto was disbelieving. “Caius isn’t lying to save his skin?

"Sherlock scared the little tosser half to death. I don't think he was lying. Wouldn’t save his skin anyway, and he knows it."

"But Sal has been with me for nigh on a decade. I've never had cause to doubt him…" 

Gregorius sighed. "If you don't believe me, then we'll set him a trap."

"I don't want to believe you, but...did you have anything in mind?"

"Every trap needs bait."

"You have some?"

"Oh, yes, I do."

00000000

"You want me to what?"

"Bait a trap for me."

"Why should I?"

"There are many ways to die, boy." 

"That's supposed to scare me?"

"You were damn near wetting yourself before I stopped the druid from making free with what little soul you have left." Caius' eyes looked haunted for a moment. He swallowed. _Got you_ , Gregorius thought. "Look, lad, I have never treated you unfairly, have I? Yet you lied, cheated, stole from your peers. You've murdered a slave, you've tried to kill both the Proconsul and me. That's treason. I could have had you tortured, beaten, starved. You know what awaits you. Every one of the men you wronged will gladly pick up a cudgel and beat you to death, probably slowly, in front of the rest of the legion. You've seen it done before. I can have you flogged first. I could have you executed in any number of ways...I’ve been in the army for a long time, and I’m very imaginative.” Gregorius paused, fixed his eyes on those of the man shackled to the wall. “Let’s see. I could have you flogged, maybe burn out your eyes first, then have you torn limb from limb by wild horses. Now there would be a spectacle.” The lad was beginning to look green. “Whatever I decide will be very messy, very public, and very slow. No quick end for you, boy….” He paused to let his words sink in. “However, I am open to leniency, if you help us now. I need Salvius. I need to know what he knows, and who he knows. If you help me, I will give you this one chance to redeem yourself. If you meet him, tell him it went wrong, persuade him you bribed the guard, ask him to help you, and lead him into our hands, then I will commute your sentence. But. Be under no illusions. You get the chance to die on the battlefield and not at the hands of your fellow soldiers. Or live, if you're lucky. Until we go to battle, you'll be kept under guard, in prison. You will be fed, watered, and treated well. That's better than you deserve...Think on it. I give you until nightfall." 

000000

"I agree."

"Thought you would. Where did you two meet?"

"Andronicus' hostelry, Caesar's Way, in the Vicus. First left after the bridge and keep on till you get to the tanners."

"You'll be taken there under guard, a message will be sent to Salvius, and then you meet with him. We'll do the rest."

Caius nodded. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." Gregorius nodded grimly and left the young man alone. 

000000000

"You think Salvius will fall for it?" John asked.

"Does it matter? We know he's guilty, but it’s Sholto needs the proof."

"How will you know?"

"The message is being taken by one of Caius’ prison guards. It reads very simply…"

"...meet me at our usual place as soon as you can." Salvius frowned. _I need your help…_ "Who gave you this?"

"Tribune Caius, sir," the man answered. 

"He's in prison…" Salvius said flatly.

The man chuckled "Not any more. He gave me his ring,” the man said, flashing the gold signet on his finger. “He promised me money if I let him loose. He wants to meet with you." 

"What does he think he's doing? The alarm will be raised when they find him missing..." 

"Huh, the General is soft on him. They let him loose to sleep. He built the straw up under his blanket and you can't tell from the door that he's not just a slumberin' peaceful-like. It’s hardly brightly lit down there.”

"You'll be for it when they find out…"

"Nah, I'll be long gone. Caius knows me of old. He struck it lucky when I was detailed to be his guard. Knows I’ve been wanting to get out for months. We’ve been… partners, if you like, for a while now. Anyway, I came soon as the guard changed over. They didn't check, just took a look through the grill and left him. Caius said you'd pay me…on his behalf. Said his uncle would compensate you." 

Salvius frowned, then nodded. "If you speak of this…"

"Nah," the soldier said, watching as the Tribune opened the lid of a small chest beside his bed. He took out a soft leather bag and handed it over. The soldier loosened the draw string and whistled when he looked inside. "That’s generous, sir. I'm a deserter, me, I'm not likely to say anythin' to anyone…"

“Best get a move on then, or you might find the hounds after you…”

The soldier nodded, backed up, bowed, and vanished into the street.

000000

"He took the bait, sir," the soldier said, handing over the coin, out of breath from running. He had met up with the General in the alleyway behind the tavern, as ordered, and they had gone into a back room to wait. "Asked me some questions, like how did he escape, what about when they realise he's gone…?"

"What did you say?"

"Just as you briefed me. Said you'd gone soft and ordered us to free him from his shackles so he could sleep, bein' as he's a condemned man an all. Just told 'im we'd built up the straw under the blanket, make it look like he's still there. Also made out like we’d been mates for a while, told him we were partners, if you get my drift. Said he knew I wanted to run..."

"That was well done."

"Thank you, sir. I also told him the watch had changed, which was why I was there, and they’d not properly checked, so the alarm wasn’t likely to be raised until the next watch change, which isn’t until three hours yet.”

Gregorius tipped the contents of the pouch onto the table. He counted out forty gold aurei. He put fifteen back into the bag. "You've done well. The rest of this is going to the family of the man he killed. Here," and he pressed the bag to the man's hand. "We are grateful. Don't drink it all away."

The soldier saluted, eyes wide. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” 

“Hand it over to our Signifer tonight…if you know what’s good for you. What’s your name?”

“Tullius Fellix, Sir.”

“Well, Tullius Felix, stay here until this is over, in case you are seen. Then report to my Tribunus Laticlavius first thing tomorrow. I need someone with your wits.”

“Sir? Yes, sir.” 

Gregorius regarded Sholto. “Looks like it’s true then,” the man said, grimly. 

“I’m sorry. Looks like we both have our traitors.”

“Then let’s hope we catch this one too.”

0000000

Salvius arrived in the silent street some time after the man had reported to him. If Caius really had escaped, this was where they usually met, this was where he would try to make contact. Was it an almighty trap, he wondered. He waited, cloak wrapped tight around him, blending into the shadows of the alleyway across from the tavern. The wind creaked the signboard above the door, and Salvius waited. 

Sudden movement caught his eye. A figure, bundled up, hurried around the front of the building, paused to look around him, then ducked inside the door. In that moment, Salvius recognised Caius in the light escaping the window shutters. Then he went inside. Salvius waited a while but nobody followed. Caius looked to be on his own. Perhaps he really had escaped. Always was a smooth bastard, he thought. He sighed. Better get a move on. He hated loose ends…

The place wasn’t busy, there were one or two folk around, all men, huddled around tables near the door. Nobody moved to intercept him, nobody spoke. Andronicus greeted him well enough, then snapped at his slave for dropping something, cuffing him and swearing. The man ducked and stumbled, trying to get out of the way. Caius was in the corner, huddled into a cloak, its hood still up. Salvius sat across from him, gaze dark and forbidding.

“You’re running.”

“Of course I’m fucking running, Sal,” Caius leaned forward and hissed. “That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. You just cost me forty aurei and you failed in your mission…”

“Shut up, Sal. I know what I did. Bastards…My uncle will pay you back, when I return. After all, you’re his man too, aren’t you? He said you’d help me if I ever needed it...and I need help, Sal, I’m desperate...” A pleading note entered the young man’s voice.

Salvius sighed. “Calm down. Of course I am. You need to leave here, and quickly. There’s a lockdown on the fortress, there have been reports of disease. They won’t let anyone in or out. I can let you out by the river door, but we have to move…I can’t get you a horse I’m afraid. I can let you have weapons, but...that’s all. Small bit of money maybe.”

“But I need to get to Londinium quickly.”

“Sorry, my friend, that isn’t going to happen. If it weren’t for the quarantine, we could sneak you out in a patrol but...not happening. Look, my advice is to head south for Lindum, there’s a fort there…”

“Lindum is miles away…Days...”

“It’s probably your only option. Look, get to the river path, I’ll get you a uniform and some boots, and a bedrolll…I’ll try to find food too. I can write you a letter of passage. When you get there, tell them you were set on and your horse killed, but you have to get to Londinium with a personal message for the Governor. They’ll most likely give you a horse and see you on your way, but don’t say you’re from Eboracum, they’ll know about the quarantine days before you arrive and won’t admit you. Change your name...Andronicus or something…” 

“Just don’t be long. I have no idea when they’ll find me gone.” 

“You just keep your head down then.” Salvius rose and turned to leave, walking swiftly between the tables, but as he did so, two of the men by the door also rose and blocked the way. “What are you…? Get out of my way.”

“I’m afraid they won’t do that,” said a voice behind him. Salvius whirled. Sholto stood behind him, by the bar, Gregorius with him. 

“Legate? What are you doing here, sir?”

Sholto sighed. “Finding out the truth, Tribune.” Salvius opened his mouth to answer, but Sholto held up a hand. “Stop,” he ordered. “Just stop, Sal. Don’t try to talk yourself out of this. We both know what you’ve done. What you were going to do. Let’s at least be honest with each other.” He shook his head. “Why, Sal? What did I ever do to you?”

Salvius just stared at him. Then all pretense dropped away. “Ten years,” he said, voice flat. “Ten lousy years, trailing after you, putting up with your shit, and everyone else’s shit, and for what? Very little. That’s what. I was approached, last year when I went to Londinium, by his uncle.” Sal gestured to Caius. “Flavius offered me much more than you ever did.”

“You betrayed my trust, and for what? What did he promise you, Salvius? Power? A seat on the Senate? A triumphal march into Rome? It’s all lies, boy. Lies. He promises it to everyone. Even me when I was younger...Yes, me.” Sholto gestured to his scarred face, the burn on his cheek. “It brought me this. Now he’s even capable of duping his own damn nephew…” Caius had come to stand beside them and Salvius’ eyes slid across to him. In that second, he knew who had betrayed him. Gregorius stepped in his way, seeing the look in his eyes. 

“You little fuck!” Salvius shouted and drew his dagger. 

“Take him!” Sholto ordered, but the guards were not quick enough. Salvius lunged forward. Sholto stepped back, guarding the back way, but before Gregorius could stop him, instead of evading Salvius, Caius threw himself into the man’s path. “Bastard!” Salvius cried. “Deceiving cunt!” The two men engaged and grappled, falling to the floor. Then the legionaries were on them, dragging Salvius back and hauling him away, kicking and struggling. One of the men cuffed him hard, stunning him sufficiently to subdue him enough to bind his wrists and ankles. 

Caius did not move from where he lay. The reason was starkly obvious. Before Gregorius could stop him, he had pulled the blade out and let it clatter on the floor. Salvius’ dagger had sliced his belly open and blood was soaking through the tunic beneath his belt. Gregorius knelt down and lifted the lad’s head up into his lap. Caius’ breath came in gasps and he fisted a bloody hand in Gregorius’ tunic. 

“Easy, lad, we’ll call for a surgeon…Easy there, stay still…" He called for someone to help, ripping a piece from the lad’s cloak to pad the injury. 

“No...no…” Caius gasped. “Too late for that...Mithras’ sake…” he rasped. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Have...mercy…” he coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Sholto knelt down and tugged Caius' clothing aside to get a better look at the injury. Grimacing, he met Gregorius’ gaze and shook his head. Gregorius looked back to Caius. “Is that what you wish?"

“More than...I deserve…” he whispered. 

“It’s a bad wound,” Sholto said. “A gut injury like that, could take him days to die, but die he will, in agony. Shall we let him do that? Atone for his betrayal with a slow death?”

“No, we shall not,” Gregorius said firmly. "There's already been too much suffering."

“General…” the lad rasped. “I have...something you should...know…”

“What is it?” The fingers tugged weakly at his tunic and Gregorius leaned down, ear as close to the trembling lips as he could. Caius whispered in his ear, and then his strength left him. He coughed, more blood welling from the injury. Gregorius laid him down, slid his own dagger out from his belt, and pressed the sharp tip under the tribune’s ribs. His eyes met Caius’ and with his other hand, he grasped the lad’s hand. “I think you’ve balanced the scales,” he said gently. “Misguided is not evil. I’ll see you in the Elysian Fields one day.” Caius held the General’s gaze and nodded, calmly. Then the dagger thrust home and Caius met his fate. 

0000000

“Great Gods, what happened?” Mycroft hurried forward on Gregorius’ return. He was leaning heavily on Sholto and covered in blood.

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” he said, waving away attempts to help. “My leg…”

Mycroft called for a seat for the General, and Rhodri came running, bearing a chair. Sholto lowered him onto it, and Gregorius sighed in relief. 

“I’m afraid things did not go according to plan,” Sholto said gravely. “We got our man, but there was a high price to pay.”

“You’re alright though…” Mycroft was concerned.

“Apart from my leg, yes. The blood’s not mine,” he added. 

“The trap went well, but we lost Caius.”

“What happened?”

“Salvius attacked him, stabbed him in the guts with his pugio when we tried to arrest him,” Sholto explained. “A gut wound is not a good way to die, and there was no way he would survive it. We’ve both seen too many men go that way over the years.”

“So, you gave him a merciful death then?” Mycroft suggested. 

Gregorius carefully avoided Mycroft’s eyes as he nodded. “The lad’s request. It was a bad injury...”

“It’s perhaps for the best, all things considered,” Mycroft said, trying to say something supportive. 

“Eighteen,” Gregorius said. “He was eighteen. Flavius has a lot to answer for…”

“Many die much younger. However, hopefully we shall see he answers for it all.”

“Fat chance of that ever happening,” Gregorius’ snapped. 

“I think you need your bed. Bathhouse first. Let’s get you clean. General Sholto, would you care to join us?”

Sholto could see Mycroft was adhering to protocol and being polite, but he wasn’t blind. Anybody could see the two men were...close, very close. He smiled and shook his head. “My thanks, but I need to secure my prisoner, and I also have to see to the appointment of another Latticlavius,” he said, diplomatically. “I hate to ask it of you, Proconsul, but would you oversee his...sentencing? On the morrow, maybe? I am his Legate, but Salvius has been with us ten years. It may be hard for the rest of the men to swallow…”

“Certainly, General. I will be available whenever you wish. Send a runner here to speak to Anthea, she will know of my situation.” 

Sholto nodded. “I can see myself out.” He paused, one hand landing heavily on Gregorius shoulder. "It may help you to know, I would have done the same," he said. "Anyone would." He bowed, and walked to the door. "Take care of each other,” he said before disappearing from view.

Surprised, Mycroft allowed himself a smile. Sholto was a man of many layers, but he was a good man as well as a good soldier. “Rhodri, please tell B...Drusus and Varius to attend us…” Rhodri ran off, and Mycroft cursed his near slip of the tongue. It was hard to realise Bran was gone for many reasons. He inwardly cursed the sorrows of the last few days and determined a ceremony to the Gods was perhaps in order. Soon. 

Mycroft guided Gregorius to the bath house where the servants treated him gently and Mycroft did his best to help, but it was obvious that Gregorius was exhausted but brooding about the events of the day and he remained silent. They stripped him, cleansed him of all the blood, and oiled his skin, stripping the dirt away carefully. Mycroft allowed them to do the same for him, and he followed the man into the pool, taking care to make sure he didn’t drown. They floated, Gregorius staring at the ceiling, Mycroft cleaning off his hair, fingers petting the strands soothingly. 

“He saved my life, I think,” Gregorius said into the quiet. The only sounds were the lapping of water and the distant sounds of the servants moving around, clearing things away. Comforting homely sounds. A world away from violence and pain.

“Caius?” The comment had come suddenly, but softly, yet Mycroft’s agile brain was ever ready to make the correct links and associations. 

“Jumped in the way of Salvius attacking us. Took him on, without a weapon.”

“Brave. It’s a pity he was misguided.”

“He believed in what he was doing, and he was a little shit, Mycroft. He was a bully who made life hell for a lot of people, admittedly in a petty way, but...now…? Now I just feel...I don’t know…” Gregorius sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age…Seems folk are able to believe it of me, so perhaps I should listen. Perhaps they’re right…”

“Technically he got what was coming to him. He got what he deserved.”

“He spoke to me before I...before he died.”

“What did he say?”

“Flavius told him that Moriarty is coming. He plans to land in Alba on the Ides, with Tigris by his side.”

“And you believe him?”

“It would fit with why Flavius wanted me back in Londinium by that time, not to mention your brother's visions. Caius also said...”

“What?”

“He said that Flavius has an enemy. Didn’t say who. Didn’t say anything else. Could be the person sent me the message that all was not as it seemed, a rather ambiguous warning, but a warning nevertheless.”

“Potentially,” Mycroft agreed. “However, that implies that this enemy also knows your part in all of this.”

The General groaned. “Gods, Mycroft, take this old man to bed. I can’t think straight anymore.”

“Certainly, my love. Come. No more discussion until tomorrow.”


	10. Aquatum equo potes tu cogere non biberent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grim sentence is passed, a curious message received and Mycroft bestows a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a filler chapter, it's a bit short, and apologies it's taken an age to update. Reality strikes, and I was also committed to writing for Mystrade Halloween 13. Update there too...
> 
> Apolgies for my Latin... I'm using google translate...

Salvius was dragged unceremoniously into the formal environment of the Forum building, his guards dropping the unfortunate man to the floor in front of the Proconsul. He had been bound, hand and foot, and had been treated none too gently. Gregorius couldn’t bring himself to care. The whole business was a mess, with greed and betrayal just around the corner. He had somehow, he reflected, glancing at Mycroft Holmes who was sitting rigidly upright on a chair, survived long enough to find this man. He had survived through some dangerous times, all things considered. There were a number of times that he should have met his end, and yet survived to get drunk in celebration. _Has it all been leading to this_ , he wondered? _Has it seriously all been leading to dying on a battlefield having just been given the sweetest time of my life?_ The Gods moved in ways man could not understand, _and by rights we should not question that,_ Gregorius thought, although it was fucking frustrating sometimes.

Gregorius dragged his attention back to the matter in hand, to the events now playing out in which he was taking a leading role. _This is worse than a Greek tragedy,_ he thought. They were in one of the offices surrounding the square, a small gathering with a few key players. Sholto was in attendance with his new Laticlavius, Varius Albus, standing behind him. Marcus had taken up a position behind Gregorius. The respective Primus Pilus of each legion stood beside his general, equally stoney faced. Everyone looked particularly grim for that matter, but Mycroft remained impassive, sitting in judgement. 

“Tiberticus Salvius, you are guilty of treason,” Sholto announced, without preamble. “In seeking to conspire with Tribune Caius of the VI Victrix to murder the Proconsul, you have broken your oath as a soldier of the Emperor, and have imputed General Flavius, Governor of Alba. You have brought the Legion into disrepute. What have you to say?”

“Nothing!” Salvius spat. “It is you who are traitors to Rome. You who let a madman lead us all to ruin. I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then you give me no choice but to find you guilty,” Sholto said, his voice hard. “As your commanding officer, it is my responsibility to determine what is done with you. However, this is the Proconsul’s legislature, so it is with his permission that I pass sentence. Proconsul, if I may?” Mycroft nodded his agreement gravely. “Very well,” Sholto continued. “It is written into military law that a traitor will suffer the death penalty. You will be taken from here at dawn tomorrow and brought to the parade square under guard. You will be flogged in front of the Legion you betrayed. Fifty lashes, no less. Then, in accordance with military law, you will suffer Fustuarium at the hands of your peers. Any last words?”

Salvius remained silent, defiant. He spat at Sholto’s feet as he was taken away to the cells. Sholto turned to his new Laticlavius. “Varius,” he said, “take the rest of the tribunes, and go to the Legion. We need eight men. Eight men who are capable of beating someone to death tomorrow. Pick the strongest, then make them draw lots.” 

“Sir,” Varius saluted and hurried away. 

0000000

"Grim business." Gregorius was staring across the garden, thoughts in turmoil. _His expression gives it away clearly,_ Mycroft thought.

"Military law is not to be taken lightly," the Proconsul said gently. "It is not meant to coddle." 

"You're telling me? I've lead my legion for nine years. I well know what military law is there for."

"So why do you find it so troubling?" 

"Because I've never liked waste," Gregorius admitted. "A waste of a life is the worst. He’s young, and he’s thrown his life away by committing treason. It doesn’t sit well that I am also committing treason. My fate should be no better.”

“Alas, General, we are all of us guilty there, but you did not choose to attempt murder. Who are you loyal to, Rome or the Emperor?”

“The Emperor _is_ Rome, by right of accession. There should be no distinction.”

“And yet, there is. A mad emperor can ruin Rome, and then...we have no Empire left to rule. So what do we do? Commit treason in order to save the country? Fate is a fickle thing, General. Justice is not the Law.”

“No, but the Military _is_ law. Every fucking move we make has a rule. For a reason. Discipline. I have five thousand men under my command, and our laws are made to keep them there. I cannot trust every one of those five thousand souls. It’s impossible. Some are criminals running from justice. Some are ordinary men wanting a job. Some are seeking freedom. Serve for twenty years and you leave as a free citizen. Some want adventure. Well, by Mithras, they’ll get it. More than they bargained for, I’ll wager. This...this is a mess, Mycroft. I’m not honestly sure who is on whose side any more. Moriarty’s mad, Tigris is a bastard, Flavius is out for himself, and you and me and Sholto… We’re caught in the middle. Damned whatever we do...”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t, so it doesn’t matter. Let them come. We have ten thousand…”

“...to their twenty. If they don’t have it now, they’ll swell the ranks on their march north. See if they don’t. And every half-witted, half-assed farmer with a grudge against the Brigantes will march with them. Despite those men being next to useless with a weapon, they are still men, still numbers to swell the ranks.”

“Then we scare them off. Past experience tells me that those men are still only men, and if they are not seasoned warriors, there is potential for scaring them away. Sherlock knows a great deal about scaring people away...” Gregorius laughed but Mycroft smiled knowingly. “Who do you fear most, a mad emperor or a hoard of screaming soldiers?”

“I think my money’s on the screaming soldiers,” Gregorius admitted. 

**000000**

“Look, you’ll have to turn back, you’re not allowed in. We’re under quarantine. There’s sickness…”

“I have to see the Proconsul…” the man demanded. “It’s urgent. I bear a message for his eyes only.” 

“Wait there, son,” the guard said. “I’ll send word, but don’t hold your breath.”

**000000**

A knock on the door brought Rhodri running with a message for Mycroft. He and Gregorius were sitting in the garden when the lad arrived.

“Sirs, forgive me. There is a man at the door saying someone is at the south gate with a message for the Consul. They wouldn’t admit him, because of the quarantine. They’re asking if you’ll go, sir.”

“Me? Now? How inconvenient.”

“I’ll go,” Gregorius said, levering himself to his feet. “Give me your ring, I’ll get him to talk.”

“Maybe I should go,” Mycroft contemplated.

“If you wish.”

“We could ride. It’s a long way to the south gate.”

“I am not riding. My leg is still sore, and that excuse they gave me for a horse...no use for anything but dogmeat. I wouldn’t be able to control him. The wound is better, but I’ve still got less strength in that thigh. Won’t risk that fucking demon dumping me in the street.”

“That does not sound befitting of a General of Rome.”

“Dead right. That’s what that horse should be, dead. Not even sure what became of it anyway. Stabled with all the rest I should imagine. Good riddance.”

“Come with me to my stables. We shall find you something more befitting. You need a more honourable mount.” Mycroft lead the way to the north of the property, into a yard Gregorius had not previously seen. It was connected to the front of the villa, on the opposite side to the garden, by an archway high enough for a rider to pass safely underneath. There were four stalls in the stable, with four glossy occupants placidly munching hay. Mycroft clapped his hands and there was a sudden scurry of feet above. A young man hurried down the ladder from the hay loft above.

“Ah, Brioc. Please saddle Zephir for me, and Sagitta too, for the General, if you please.” The lad bowed low and dashed off, and Gregorius could see him grabbing well-maintained tack off wall hooks, piling it into two heaps. He hurried back, then went about getting both horses ready in a no-nonsense way, murmuring reassurances to the animals as he went. In no time, he was leading Zephir* a fine grey mare, out into the yard. She was closely followed by the jet back Sagitta*. 

“Here,” Mycroft handed the reins over to Gregorius. “Please, consider him a gift. A token of my gratitude for all your support. I named him Sagitta. He’s fast as an arrow, and dextrous too. He should carry you well.” Mycroft reached to caress the velvet muzzle and the horse nuzzled back. “You carry the good General well now, my lovely,” he said. “You’re his, and you will do your duty, is that clear?” The horse whickered softly and bowed his head. “There, good lad,” Mycroft said, smiling at the animal’s antics. 

“Mycroft, he’s magnificent. I can’t accept…”

“Of course you can. Birthday gift.”

“It’s not my birthday for six weeks.”

“Early birthday gift then,” Mycroft insisted. “Listen, Gregorius, you require a mount that is worthy of you. You need something that makes you look...heroic, for the sake of your men at least. They need someone they can respect, someone they can willingly follow. Now more than ever we need that loyalty. This one will keep you safe too.” 

“You want me to be safe?”

“More than you can know. If this is all I can do, then do it I will, and gladly.” 

Gregorius frowned, and reached a hand to smooth over the horse’s soft muzzle. He snuffed into Gregorius’ hand. “He truly is magnificent, Mycroft,” Gregorius said, pleased.

 _Like you_ , Mycroft thought, but said nothing. He watched the General mount the horse in one smooth move, despite his injury. It was obvious he was at home in the saddle, and although he sat a little awkwardly, Sagitta didn’t dance around, or flinch. He stood firm, and waited for instruction. Gregorius settled into the saddle and stroked the animal’s neck. “Handles beautifully already, and we’ve not even begun.”

“He was well trained.”

“Can see that. Come on then, lad, off we go.” He pressed his heels into the animal’s flanks and the horse stepped out, walking briskly out of the gate. Mycroft followed, the pair making quite the show; dark and light, in step with each other. 

“You do look good mounted...” Mycroft commented, and left the statement hanging in the air. 

“Not sure that you mean on this fine fellow though…” Gregorius said with a grin, reaching to stroke the glossy neck. The horse snuffed down his nose in reply. “Yes, lad, I agree. He’s flirting with the both of us. Let’s give him a run for his money then…” He pressed his heels gently into the glossy coat and the horse broke into a canter, turning heads along the Via Principalis as they went. 

“Perhaps, after the events of tomorrow morning have played out, I would suggest a reward,” Mycroft said as they rode down the Via Praetoria. 

“Reward?”

“Yes, for the men. It will be hard to watch a fellow soldier, a tribune no less, lose his life. Perhaps they need something to pull them together, to expend energy, to bond again. Let us arrange games. We have a full-blown colosseum here, albeit a small one compared to Rome. It has a racetrack. We could have wrestling, archery, running, horsemanship, chariot racing, swimming perhaps…”

“Your goal?”

“Recreation for the men, relaxation, and teamwork. I suggest we task them with trials, tests of strength and agility and patience. As a cohort they can elect the best men to compete on their behalf. We can include hunting and tracking. It would be quite the event, something to look forward to, to build strength and bond together.”

“Not the worst idea.” 

“Thank you, General, for that ringing endorsement.”

Gregorius smiled. “It’s a good idea, Mycroft. A lot to organise though, and we may not have much time...”

“Let us leave it to the tribunes perhaps. It will keep them occupied.”

“Could work. Best see what Sholto thinks.”

“Agreed.” They rode the rest of the way in silence, although Mycroft could see Gregorius assessing his new mount, hands gentle on the reins, legs... _oh dear._..The General’s well-formed thighs were going to be his downfall…

Gregorius dismounted smartly on reaching the South Gate, calling for the Guard to attend them. He was careful not to take all his weight on his bad leg, but Gregorius noted that Sagitta stood firm and supported his rider as the man steadied himself on the ground. A soldier scurried out of the guardhouse, slapped his chest in salute and bowed to the Proconsul. 

“Sirs, Basius Calvus, at your service. Guard of the South Gate. We have a messenger waiting, sir, says he has a message for the Proconsul. Afraid we couldn’t admit him to the fortress proper, because of the quarantine. I sent food and drink out to him though, sir.”

“Good enough, Calvus. Where is he from, do you know?”

“Says he’s ridden from Londinium, took him two days. Called at every fort along the way to change horses…”

“Who sent him?”

“No idea yet, sir. You want to speak with him?”

“I do.” 

“This way, sir.”

The man was dressed in the uniform of the army, red tunic and trews underneath a battered lorica. “Sir,” he said, saluting on seeing the Proconsul and the General. “My message is private, for the Proconsul’s eyes only.”

“Very well, soldier. What were you to take as proof of my identity?”

“A ring, my Lord. Your seal.”

“Here, does that match with the description?” Mycroft held his hand out with the signet ring on it. The soldier looked and nodded, while maintaining a safe distance. 

“Yes, sir, it does.” The man fished inside his tunic and drew out some thin pieces of wood, bound together like a book. He handed it over. “I am to ask if there is a reply and to tell you I am required back in three days.”

“If you don’t mind sleeping in the gate house tonight, I am sure no one will mind, and moreover, no one need know,” Mycroft said, beckoning the gate guard over. “I shall send word when I have read this. If you do not receive a reply by tomorrow night, assume there is none and leave at dawn the following day.” He turned to the guard. “Allow this man to sleep in the gate house, if you will, but tell no one. Give him a fresh horse when he wishes to leave.”

“Sir, yes, sir. Will there be anything else, Proconsul?”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft turned to go, clutching the letter to his chest, then he turned back. “I hope you can be discreet, Calvus. No word of this to anyone. The General and I are out to...assess the defences, and for the General to put his new mount through his paces.” The man nodded, and saluted again, and the two men remounted, riding back along the road at a fast pace. Halfway there, Mycroft reined in, grasped the book, and unfastened the seals. As he did so, a feather fell out, spiralling to the floor lazily. “What the…?” Mycroft watched it fall, a curious look in his eyes.

Gregorius dismounted and picked the feather up. “That’s odd,” he said, turning it over in his hand.

Mycroft scanned the contents and frowned. “It’s...not what I was expecting,” he said, puzzled.

“Who is it from?”

“I admit I have no idea,” Mycroft instructed. “Read it,” he offered, handing it over.

“Gibberish,” Gregorius said, on first seeing the jumbled letters. “What is it? The scribbles of a lunatic?”

“It’s encrypted, some form of keyword cypher, I think. Now all I have to do is find the keyword.”

“Keyword?”

“Yes, the key to unlocking the code.” Mycroft flicked through the wooden leaves, examining them closely. “Hmm, I wonder what the sender had in mind? Without a key, there is no decoding the script. Nothing has been added to the rest of this, I can’t find anything that might be a keyword.” 

“Wait a moment. This feather, it’s from a Magpie.”

“A what?” 

“A magpie. Thieving little bastards. They go after shiny things.”

“I know what a magpie is, but...Oh, Sherlock…”

“...said he saw a magpie in his dreams, didn’t he?” Gregorius said.

“Yes, he did. He said he saw one with Moriarty…”

“Picave,” Gregorius said. “That’s your keyword. None of the letters are repeated, it’s a perfect choice.”

“Only one way to find out. Come along, we have a message to decode...” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zephir means 'West Wind', and Sagitta means 'arrow'.

**Author's Note:**

> Eboracum is York, Londinium is London (obviously) and I have tried to use some Roman names where possible. If there is anything else incomprehensible, I will endeavour ro explain it here. Please feel free to point it out in comments. Ta.
> 
> Also, do not take this as gospel. This is not Roman History 101. I have bent the rules for this. It is an AU after all. Moriarty was never an Emperor, obviously, and I think the lost legion of the 9th had already been lost by the time this story takes place. I am revising my timeline, and instead of a 4th century setting, I think, on reflection, it is far more likely to be sometime during the middle of the 3rd century. Most people were Christian by 313AD when the Emperor Constantine declared it the official religion of Rome. As I have chosen to reference Mithras, and other Gods and Goddesses, I think I am altering the era. Despite it not being Roman History 101, I would like it to reflect a bit of real history.
> 
> Warnings may seem a little strong, but I am being careful. Violence was a frequent part of the Roman Army, and death was no stranger. Sex and violence is to be found in this story, although it might not be considered as strong as I have indicated. I am being safe with my warnings.


End file.
